


The Wisdom to Know the Difference

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Detox, Drug Addiction, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mission’s over.  Unfortunately, that means the hard part has just begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.
> 
> A/N: Written for my “substance addiction” prompt for hc_bingo. I fully acknowledge that the timeline of some of the medical stuff has been condensed for the purposes of the fic. I apologize for any inaccuracies. Betas by sockie1000 and sophie_deangirl.

In truth, it’s a job well done. Michael’s used to taking on the hard cases, but this one has been especially trying. It’s required the long game from the start, and the choice to send in a man undercover is never one he takes lightly -- especially when months are involved. Initially, Michael had slated it to be a two-month operation, but it’d quickly spiraled to a five month gig.

Five months with Billy undercover, ingratiating himself to the worst and most notorious drug dealers in Central America. Five months of separating his team, reducing the rest to monitoring and support while Billy lived and breathed the world of drug trafficking. 

Michael has to admit, he’s not sure who took it the worst. With the long term nature of the assignment, he had to rotate his men out, virtually reassigning Rick and Casey to other tasks back at Langley while he stayed and provided on the ground support for Billy. Rick angsted about that, calling in continually and finding excuses to make a trip overseas. Casey, though he wouldn’t admit it, was sullen and withdrawn, and Michael noticed the uptick in his casualty count during the interim.

And Michael didn’t exactly enjoy it. It’s a quiet, isolating life, playing handler to an undercover agent. It’s never a role he’s fancied for himself, but he does his due diligence. Because Billy’s the one undercover, but this is Michael’s mission. His choices matter. He dictates how long this lasts and when they pull the plug. The buck stops with him.

Ironically, Billy takes it best. He flourishes with a role to play, and it’s uncanny how naturally he fits in with criminal types. He smiles and charms, and he talks the talk. It doesn’t take long for him to get a good foothold, but the instant Billy starts relaying information back, it becomes clear they’ve underestimated the scope of the operation. It’s Billy who told him they had to keep going.

But it was Michael who approved it.

It was Michael who made the call.

It was _Michael._

So no one is more relieved than him when the time is right. He’s damn grateful to organize the raid, and takes a personal interest in seeing every drug dealer arrested and questioned, charged with irrefutable evidence.

The team is congratulatory. Rick is beaming; Casey stands unusually close to Billy and tells him he’s pleasantly surprised that he didn’t screw it up. Billy grins back and says he’s no hero; he just did what had to be done.

Michael’s just glad it’s over.

After five months, it’s finally _over._

-o-

It takes five months of relentless work. Five months that drag, that stretch on interminably. For all that, though, the operation ends fairly quickly. Although the ODS spearheaded the operation, the majority of the tactical maneuvers were performed by Navy SEALs in conjunction with the local authorities. For an operation this scale, there really hadn’t been another choice. Normally, Michael doesn’t like to give up control but he does appreciate being able to slip into the background when all the gunfire is over. As it is, it’s going to take a while to sort things out on the ground, which is why Michael can’t go far. 

“Think of it as a working vacation,” Michael tells his team with a smirk when they finally are cleared by the military to leave the scene.

“You know, I always considered oxymorons to be an appropriate name,” Casey gripes, even as he lingers closer to Billy than normal. “You’re a moron for using them.”

Michael chuckles. “I know this is no Paris--”

“But there’s actually a lot of fascinating local sites,” Rick says, trying to be helpful. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Mayan ruins.”

“You don’t even need an oxymoron to sound stupid,” Casey snarks.

Rick glares. “Well, what are you going to do?”

Casey smiles, somewhat predatory. “I have a few contacts in the area,” he says. He shrugs coyly. “If we have a week, I may be able to get reacquainted.”

Rick’s brow is furrowed in apparent confusion, and it’s only then that Michael realizes that Billy is being uncharacteristically silent. The military had cleared them to leave, which had included a short visual confirmation that everyone appeared to be in good health. Billy would be given a thorough once-over back at Langley, both physically and psychologically, but it occurs to Michael that maybe there’s a more pressing need.

“How about you?” Michael asks, nudging the Scot gently.

Billy seems to take the cue, and smiles accordingly. It’s very typically Billy, and if he looks more weary than normal, Michael supposes he’s entitled that. “As fun as all that sounds, I think I’ve had enough of the local sites and people,” he says. “I may reacquaint myself with my normal clothes and a few books.”

“You sure?” Rick asks. “I’m pretty sure I could get us into some great places.”

“I may even be able to find a...friend for you,” Casey offers with an unusually magnanimous tone. Rick and Casey don’t want to say it out loud, but they’ve missed Billy.

Michael’s missed Billy, so he knows how they feel. 

Yet, Billy’s the one who did the hard work on this one. If he wants to lay around in his hotel room and read, that’s his business. 

Billy looks appropriately impressed. “I’m actually not sure I’d have the stamina for one of your friends,” Billy quips. And he looks at Rick earnestly. “And I promise, next time we’re in a country with fascinating cultural history, I will let you take me wherever you want.”

Rick looks a little disappointed, but he nods. “We could stay in with you,” he suggests. “Charge some pay per view movies to the hotel bill, eat a little room service.”

Billy chuckles fondly. “Lad, I’m right knackered,” he says. “Five months undercover -- I need five days to re-acclimate myself to, well, _me._ ”

Casey rolls his eyes. “Meaning I should savor this moment.”

Rick shoves him a little. “It’s good to have you back,” he says.

Billy smiles. “It’s good to be back,” he says, and he hesitates, looking unusually serious. “I...you have no idea.”

It’s honest, which is maybe why it catches Michael so off guard. In all the years he’s known Billy, the man has put up one front after another. The moments of raw emotion, of true _Billy,_ are few and fleeting. It’s suddenly unsettling to realize he’s witnessing one now. That these five months were enough to strip Billy down, to take him apart, and what’s left--

He’s overthinking it.

Billy’s grin widens, and there’s the familiar mischievous gleam in his eyes. “I reckon taking a week off is as much for you as it is for me,” he says. “A week until you’re stuck with my singing, my paper airplanes, and my coffee cups in your car.” He winks. “I’ll make you think twice about pulling me out yet.”

Casey scoffs. “You already are.”

Rick laughs. “Never.” He pauses. “You sure we can’t do anything for you?”

Billy looks genuinely grateful. “You’ve done enough,” he says.

“In that case,” Casey announces. “I’m off.”

“Yeah,” Rick says with a reluctant shrug. “I guess I’ll let you get back to it.”

Billy nods. “I’m counting on pictures,” he says. 

“Of course!” Rick says.

“I was talking about Casey,” Billy snarks.

Casey turns back with a smirk, even while Rick frowns. “You wish,” Casey says.

When they’re out of range, Billy sighs, seeming to deflate slightly. Michael nudges him again. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks, eyes narrowed as he looks at his teammate again. It’s not just the physical weariness; there’s something else. Something just _off_ that Michael can’t place.

Billy gives him a long look. “I’ve been better,” he admits. “But nothing a little R&R won’t cure.”

“Do you want to stop by and see a doctor?” Michael suggests.

Billy shrugs. “I’ll be poked and prodded enough back at Langley,” he says. “I just want a bit of privacy.”

It’s not that Billy’s being unreasonable -- it’s just...Michael’s not sure what it is, but it is something. “You just don’t look great,” he finally says.

“I don’t reckon you’d be at your best after five months with a drug cartel,” Billy jokes. “But if it’s all the same, I do think I may be coming down with something. Terrible timing, I know.”

“The medics are still here,” Michael says, nodding back toward the military personnel patrolling the area.

“It’s a spot of the flu,” Billy says dismissively, even as he shifts restlessly from one foot to the other. “I’d much prefer to suffer in peace, if I could.”

Michael can’t begrudge him that. “You know where to find us. You’re not doing this on your own.”

“Aye,” Billy says, raising his hand to scratch the back of his neck. “I never have.”

“Come on,” Michael says. 

Billy is ready to protest. “Michael--”

Michael rolls his eyes, clapping Billy on the shoulder. “I’ll give you a ride back to the hotel,” he says. “Unless you intended on walking.”

Billy flushes slightly, scratching at the back of his neck again. “I reckon I have missed carpooling.”

Michael grins. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Spoken like a true friend,” Billy says.

Michael inclines his head, starting toward his rental. “And don’t you forget it.”

-o-

The ride to the hotel is unusually quiet. Billy generally makes car rides go quickly, but Michael figures the Scot probably doesn’t want to talk shop after five months undercover. There’s no doubt Billy will have grand stories to tell, but Michael knows better. He’s the one who was Billy’s contact more often than not. He knows all the work Billy did -- the unglamorous, ethically questionable work. He knows the gut wrenching agony of making friends with lowlifes and learning how to profit off of death and addiction.

Billy will tell stories about grand heroics and humorous moments amid the drama. But for now, Billy needs to recuperate.

That’s what Michael tells himself, anyway, as he steals uncertain glances at his unusually reserved teammate. Billy had started out his stint undercover verbose and upbeat. He’d been the one who painstakingly cajole Michael’s spirits when he wanted to pull the plug. The last month had been different, though. He’d counted on Billy regaining his vigor when his cover was revoked.

He just needed time.

And space.

Which was why Michael promptly booked Billy his own room under a new alias.

“Here you go,” Michael says, handing him a key. “For now, you’re Jamie Randall, on vacation.”

Billy takes the key, smiling gratefully. “And good riddance Theodore Everett,” he says in reference to his undercover identity. “You will not be missed.”

“Well, just remember that we expect Billy Collins back at Langley in a week,” Michael reminds him.

Billy nods, lifting the key in the facsimile of a salute. “And Billy Collins you shall have in a week,” he pledges. “For now, however--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael says. “Be sure to call me if you need anything, Mr. Randall.”

Billy winks. “You know I will.”

-o-

And that should be that. Michael’s room is on the first floor and Billy’s is on two, so he sees the Scot to the elevator than trudges the familiar route to his own room. Inside, everything is how he left it -- his files and his surveillance equipment -- and he idly sets about taking it down.

It’s over, he has to remind him. This one is finally behind them.

Still, packing up five month’s worth of work is no small task. Michael is meticulous in his record keeping, which means things may be well organized but the paperwork is copious.

This is part of the job, though, and not even part that Michael hates. It’s closure.

It’s time to move on.

Michael feels like he should be relieved.

He’s not sure why he’s not.

-o-

Several hours later, his hotel room is almost immaculate. He’s shredded the extraneous paperwork and neatly filed the rest in a series of locked briefcases. He’s about ready to order some room service, when his phone chirps.

Curious, he pulls it out. Then he grins as he answers. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Fay’s voice came on the other end. “I thought you were going to call.”

“Worried about me?”

Fay made a sound of contempt. “I need some of your confirmation numbers in order to continue processing the file.”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” Michael says with a smirk.

He can’t see Fay, but he knows she’s rolling her eyes as she sighs. “Right,” she says. “I’m getting an earful from Higgins that you haven’t checked in yet.”

At that, Michael winces. “He’s unhappy?”

“Unhappy?” Fay asks with incredulity. “How could he be unhappy? The military says that it’s working well with local law enforcement and that charges are pending on nearly fifty people rounded up in the raid, including two of the most notorious drug criminals in Central America. Higgins is thrilled.”

“So why’s he bothering you?”

“Because he’s waiting for the other shoe to fall, I guess,” Fay says. “He’s convinced that there’s something you’re not telling him.”

“Well, I can honestly say that this went by the book,” Michael tells her, laying back on his bed and watching as the ceiling fan spun lazily above him. “Perfection.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” she says. “I think he won’t believe it until he sees all of you back at Langley and has the chance to put you through a formal debrief.”

“Well, that sounds enticing,” Michael says sardonically.

“Seriously,” Fay says. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

“You that anxious to see me?”

“Michael,” Fay says, a hint of warning in her voice.

“Right, right,” Michael says. “We’re going to use the week to make sure everything is squared away.”

“A week?” Fay asks. “Isn’t that a little excessive?”

“A week,” Michael affirms. “Like you said, there’s nearly fifty suspects in lockup. If they’re going to finalize charges, we can help them out with that.”

“Surely you can do that remotely,” Fay says.

“You really _do_ miss me.”

“Michael,” Fay says again, harsher now.

“This cost my team five months,” Michael tells her in all seriousness. “Give us a week.”

She hesitates, but Fay’s not as heartless as she wants to seem. She’s also not as clinically detached as she’d like people to believe. She cares about Michael; she cares about his team. She’s generally a good person -- the best.

“Fine,” she concedes. “But expect frequent calls from home.”

“I look forward to it,” Michael says with a grin.

“I’ll bet you are,” Fay muses. Then she pauses again. “Seriously, though. Good work on this one. You should be proud.”

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “I should.”

As she hangs up, he can’t say for sure why he isn’t.

-o-

Michael sleeps on it. He’s got good instincts, but he’s also pretty aware that he’s a paranoid bastard, so sometimes he tries to rein it in. This seems like one of those times.

Except he doesn’t sleep all night. He stares at the ceiling and goes over everything.

He still remembers Billy, before all this started, saying it had to be him. “This is a role of finesse. Casey would be ill suited and Rick’s too green.”

“Hey!” Rick had objected.

“He’s right, Martinez,” Michael said. “You’re a no-go.”

“But I’m the only native speaker,” Rick protested.

“We’re pulling the foreign investor angle,” Michael reminded them all. “We already let you get shot to hell by one cartel; we’re not doing it again.”

“Thank you,” Billy said.

Michael had trained his eyes on Billy. “That doesn’t mean it has to be you,” he said. “I can be downright charming when I want to be.”

Billy had smiled, that small smile of his. “But we need you running the operation,” he said, because he’d anticipated this conversation all along. “None of us can do what you do. And I can make this cover work. I can _do_ this.”

“This isn’t a short-term thing,” Casey interjected. “You have to have an attention span that outlasts a flea for once.”

The insult had been a veil for concern, and they all had known it. Billy shrugged easily. “My endurance may surprise you,” he said, then he winked. “In all things.”

“I don’t know if I like it,” Michael said. “Maybe there’s another way.”

“I can’t say _I_ like it,” Billy said. “But there is no other way. Trust me, Michael. I’ll get the job done. No matter what.”  
 _  
No matter what.  
_  
Those words haunt Michael now. He’d replayed them in his head often over the last few months, justifying every added day he kept Billy undercover. Just one more day, he’d always told him. Just a little more intel. Just a little more _time._

Five months isn’t a lifetime, but it’s long enough to change a man. It’s long enough to make _no matter what_ mean something.

But what?

What have they sacrificed? It can’t all be a win, can it?

Is Michael just a paranoid bastard?

Or is he a tactical genius?

What’s he missing?

Nothing, he reminds himself. His team is safe; his team is whole. He has everything.

And the night wears on.

-o-

In the morning, Michael is ready at the dawn. He’s not well rested, but he’s pretty used to that. He hadn’t made a habit of sleeping much; he always found it hard to turn his brain off when an op was in play, and after five months...

Well, Michael is a functional insomniac now.

While this may not be entirely healthy or psychologically viable, it does have its perks. He’s ready to go whenever need arises, and he does get a _lot_ done. He’s showered, shaved, dressed and on his third cup of coffee when it’s finally late enough to check in with the others.

He calls Casey first and doesn’t comment about the multiple female voices he hears in the background. They make simple contact, but when Michael asks if he’s seen Billy, the human weapon goes uncharacteristically sullen. “I texted him to see if he wanted breakfast, but I never heard back,” Casey says. “Bastard has been out for less than 24 hours and he’s already a pain in my ass.”

It’s said with malice, but Michael knows better. He knows that Casey doesn’t like social meals most of the time, and the mere invitation to breakfast was Casey’s way of reaching out. 

Michael sighs. “Well, he was pretty tired,” he offers. “Maybe he slept through it.”

“I guess,” Casey says. “But if he thinks my random acts of generosity are going to last--”

Chuckling, Michael shakes his head. “Like that’s a lesson Billy’s ever learned.”

“Point taken,” Casey grumbles. There’s a small hesitation. “Do you think we should go over there?”

“He was feeling under the weather,” Michael says. “He just needs some rest.”

It sounds so reasonable. It _is_ reasonable.

Casey has no counter-argument. “Well, if you talk to him, tell him the offer is rescinded unless he’s paying,” he says tersely. “I waited five long months for his sorry ass, and I’m not waiting any more.”

“Fair enough,” Michael says before he hangs up. He’s hardly had a second to think when his phone rings. Frowning, he glances at the screen then answers promptly. “Martinez?”

“Oh, Michael,” Rick says faltering awkwardly. “I, um. You answered fast.”

“Yeah, I do that on missions,” Michael tells him with a small roll of his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I--” Rick hesitates again, as if he’s trying to figure out what he wants to say. “I just...I was wondering about Billy.”

Michael’s annoyance dissipates with a pang of sympathy. They’re all feeling protective of their recently returned teammate; Rick’s just the only one who doesn’t know how to mask it. “I haven’t checked in with him yet.”

“Oh,” Rick says, and it sounds like he’s disappointed. 

“Something wrong, Martinez?” Michael presses.

Rick collects an audible breath. “Not really,” he says. “I mean, I called him and he didn’t answer.”

“Well, the man just spent five months with a drug cartel,” Michael reminds him. “I think he’s entitled to some sleep.”

“But it just kept ringing,” Rick says.

“So, he slept through it,” Michael concludes.

“I called him four times within fifteen minutes,” Rick finally confesses. 

The concern is obvious, and Michael can’t lie, it raises flags for Michael, too. Billy’s notoriously fond of his phone, and he’d been more than somewhat eager to reclaim it from Michael when the operation ended. Michael’s cussed Billy out more than once for sending pointless text messages at all times of the night, and somehow the Scot has a knack for calling at the worst possible times.

But the practical part of Michael’s brain wins out. “He might have it on vibrate,” he says. “Hell, he could be taking a shower. We have no reason to think anything different.”

He can almost see Rick posturing. “I know, but...”

But it’s been five months. But it went too well. But Billy’s usually the first one to buy drinks. But something _feels_ wrong.

Michael can’t base decisions on feelings. There are facts to consider. Compelling, hard to argue facts.

That’s what Michael has. That’s what he needs to stand on now.

“But nothing,” Michael says. “Just give it a few days. By the time we get back to Langley, everything will be just like it was five months ago before this mission started.”

Rick sighs. “I know,” he says, sounding dejected. “It’s stupid, I guess. It just feels like we’re waiting for the other shoe to fall.”

“Well, maybe this time there is no other shoe,” Michael says. “We’re entitled to some good luck every now and then.”

There’s another hesitation. “So you think it’d be bad for me to go to his room?”

“Let him rest,” Michael says. “When he’s ready, he’ll call you. You know Billy.”

“Yeah,” Rick says, but his voice lingers as if he wants to say more. “You’ll call me?”

Michael rolls his eyes again. “Go on your sightseeing tour, Martinez,” he says. “There’ll be nothing to call about.”

He hangs up with a flourish and looks at his phone. His fingers scrolls through his contact, hesitating on Billy.

Then he tosses his phone on the bed.

He needs to take his own advice -- and let it go.

-o-

So Michael does what Michael does. The mission isn’t active, but there’s still plenty to do. When he has his own files attended to, he knows there are still loose ends to tie up on the ground. He brokered this week off mostly for his team’s benefit, but he certainly does have things he needs to do.

He doesn’t feel like calling home again, so he puts that off. As much as he’d like to talk to Fay, he knows he won’t avoid a patch through to Higgins, which is really just not high on his list of fun ways to start his day. Instead, he decides to verify his handiwork and make sure that the military personnel in charge of the site don’t have any lingering issues they need help sorting out.

He locks up his room and glances at the elevator on the way out. Billy’s just one floor up. He could stop by...

But he told Casey and Rick and everyone else that Billy needed to rest. Michael needs to listen to his own advice.

Even if he doesn’t want to.

-o-

It’s not exactly a short drive out, and he’s pleased to find the site well guarded and thoroughly contained. He’s granted access and follows the leader of the operation back to the temporary holding area.

“We’re still trying to work out positive identifications while we transfer them over to Guatemalan authorities,” the commander explains. “Needless to say, they’re not being very helpful.”

“Go figure,” Michael says wryly. “How much longer are you going to hold them?”

“Not much,” the commander says. “A few of them may need to be extradited to other countries based on oustanding warrants, but I hope to have this place sealed and shut down within two days.”

Michael nods his approval. “And the evidence?”

The commander takes a moment to look impressed. “Best we’ve ever scored in this region,” he says. “Your man was right on target with this one.”

For five months, Michael should hope. “Anything you need me to do to finish this up?” he asks instead.

“Yeah, there is one thing,” the commander says. “The leader has conflicting arrest warrants in several countries, which is why we’ve still got him under full guard while officials figure out where he’s going to be sent.”

“So?” Michael asks.

“So, we’ve been trying to get him to talk to us while we sort out his extradition,” the commander says.

“I’m still not following--”

“He wants to talk you,” the commander says.

Michael frowns.

The commander holds up his hands. “We haven’t told him anything,” he says. “But he’s not stupid. He knows the only way this went down is with an insider. American military raid -- he’s thinking American intelligence pulled one off.”

“I can’t go in there,” Michael says. “You know that.”

“Of course,” the commander says. “Which is why I said he could talk to a member of our legal team, especially since one of his warrants is in America.”

Michael is skeptical.

“It’s our only shot at getting him to tell us anything else,” the commander says.

Considering this, Michael draws a long breath and lets it out. Although he’s pretty sure it goes against direct protocol in this case, he’s also pretty sure that he’d love to take a crack at this guy. That’s sort of how Michael operates -- if there’s a source, Michael wants to tap it. He restrains himself more often than not for the sake of his safety and the safety of his team, but if he’s being offered a working cover and the chance to confront one of the most notorious cartel members currently in operation--

Well, it’s hard to resist.

He nods. “Okay,” he says. “Am I going in as a friendly?”

“More like a neutral party,” the commander says. “You’re there to explain the legal ramifications. You’re not authorized to offer him anything, but if he happens to say something...”

Michael smiles. “I think I know what I’m doing.”

-o-

The confidence is no bluster. Michael has planned, orchestrated and executed this operation from the get-go. He’s not the only one who can take credit, but it’s no stretch to say that he’s the mastermind of it all.

And it feels pretty damn good, really. To see one of the region’s most wanted criminals handcuffed and idle, with armed guards nearby. This man has killed countless people. He’s ruined so many lives. Michael sacrificed five months of Billy’s life to capture him, and for that moment, the gratification of seeing him in custody is worth it.

He smiles as he sits down. “Mr. Ortiz,” he says. “I hear you’re not being very cooperative.”

Guillermo Ortiz scowls, face twisted with something akin to rage and hatred. “Were you with the one who turned on me?” he asks in heavily accented English, his dark eyes glaring at Michael vindictively.

Michael raises his eyebrows, playing it entirely cool. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with a shrug. “I was sent here because I was told you have some questions about the legal charges against you.”

“I do not care about the charges,” Ortiz spits. “I only care about who betrayed me.”

“Well, you work with criminals, if the outstanding arrest warrants for your cohorts are any indication,” Michael says. “They’re not exactly known for their honesty.”

“Do not play with me!” Ortiz snarls.

Michael lifts his hands. “Aggression will get you nowhere at this point, Mr. Ortiz.”

“This is the Americans doing, yes?” he asks. “So where is the CIA? They could be anywhere.”

Michael chuckles, even though Ortiz is dead on. “Pointing fingers at fictional ghosts isn’t going to lessen the charges against you. But if you’re willing to talk--”

Ortiz shakes his head. “It has to be a new hire,” he says. “Someone from the merger six months ago.”

“I’m not sure I’m the one--”

“Garcia is a longtime associate, and he vouched for the men on his side of the operation, but I had my doubts,” Ortiz continues, watching Michael carefully. It’s clear what he’s doing -- he’s listing names to get a reaction -- which is why Michael sure as hell isn’t going to move now. “Rodriguez is the most obvious choice, which is why I think him to be innocent of this betrayal. Edwards is also likely, since he is the only American on my payroll, but I am not sure you are that stupid.”

Michael sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Ortiz doesn’t stop, his gaze narrowing even farther. “I think Janssen is also possible, but maybe it is more sinister. Maybe you turned one of my own. Recarey, perhaps? He has always seemed weak. Or Castillo -- he is so young.”

“Mr. Ortiz--”

Ortiz’s doesn’t seem to hear him, eyes boring into Michael with uncomfortable clarity. “None of those, then. I have considered others. I have thought about Pena. And also Mr. Everett, who is so fond of talking.” He pauses, tilting his head. “But then, Mr. Everett is fond of many things, yes?”

Michael doesn’t flinch at the mention of Billy’s alias. It’s a moot point now, but there are people out there who could still technically ID Billy by that alias, and Michael’s not leaving anything like that to chance. He can’t -- he won’t.

But his momentary silence does not escape Ortiz’s notice. The man is smart; the man is good. That’s one reason why Michael went after him specifically -- that’s why he was willing to let Billy stay under that long. Because Ortiz was worth it.

The sly smile across the man’s face is predatory and unsettling. “I do hope it is not Mr. Everett,” he says. “Because he will have many things to account for if he returns home. Traitors always get what is due to them.”

Michael raises his eyes. “If you’re making threats against some of the other prisoners--”

“No threats,” Ortiz says. “Please, I am an incarcerated man, due for extradition and a long court battle. My lieutenants have already started dismantling the rest of the network. They will serve justice as they see fit, and they will not fall prey to the likes of you again. But _traitors--_ ” He stops, eyes almost gleaming now. “Traitors throw rocks at glass houses. Traitors call out the speck in their brother’s eye without removing the plank in their own. Mr. Everett has many planks, and he will find that others are not as forgiving of such things as we are.”

Michael flattens his mouth, and refuses to let his emotions show. Ortiz is grasping at straws; Ortiz is throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks. Michael’s not going to tell him if he’s right or wrong.

He’s not going to tell this son of a bitch anything.

Collecting a breath, Michael forces a smile as he gets to his feet. “I don’t think you need legal advice, Mr. Ortiz,” Michael says.

“Oh?” Ortiz asks.

“No,” Michael says. “You need a psychologist. Or an executioner. I guess I’ll let the legal system decide -- wherever you end up.”

“This does not end so easily!” Ortiz called after him. “Not for you or for your little traitor.”

-o-

On the outside, Michael is in a hurry to leave. His chest feels tight, and he’s starting to sweat. He’s almost out, when the commander stops him. “No luck then?”

Michael blinks, and remembers himself. “No,” he says. “Bastard’s pretty determined to make this harder.”

The commander sighs. “Well, his testimony will be inconsequential,” he says. “You guys got all the evidence that will be needed.”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Is there anything else?”

“For me? No,” he says. “But if you want to check in with the local authorities--”

Michael nods. “Will do.’

The commander hesitates. “Everything go okay in there?”

Michael looks up, almost in surprise. “Yeah, of course,” he says, the words on repeat now, sounding weaker and more hollow every time he says them. “Everything’s perfect.”

-o-

On the way back, Michael reminds himself that Ortiz is a criminal. He’s not just any criminal, he’s a smart, sadistic bastard. He doesn’t just know how to evade the law; he takes pleasure in his criminality. It’s not just business for him. It’s a way of life.

In some ways, Michael can respect this. That’s his own approach to the job -- he just doesn’t know how to separate it. Like Michael, Ortiz knows how to work people. He knows how to put the details together to make a big picture. That’s why Ortiz wanted to speak to someone in the CIA -- and it’s the same reason Michael took the chance.

They’re pretty similar.

Except Ortiz is a drug dealing murderer, and Michael’s committed to working for the good of his country.

Logically, he tries to tell himself that Ortiz’s words were nothing but a psychological ploy. People react different ways when faced with failure and imminent downfall. Ortiz is clearly one who believes that the best defense is a good offense. His guess about Billy was luck -- pure and total luck.

And yet, the details he’d divulged...

Michael’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.  
 _  
Traitors call out the speck in their brother’s eye without removing the plank in their own. Mr. Everett has many planks, and he will find that others are not as forgiving of such things as we are.  
_  
Maybe bold words; maybe just words designed to entice and provoke. But the best enticements -- the greatest provocations -- always start with the truth.

It’s stupid to think about that, though. Billy was undercover as a drug dealer. Michael had added some of the more colorful turns to Billy’s cover story himself. Theodore Everett _had_ to have some serious issues or Ortiz would never have taken him on.

But Michael can’t shake it. He can’t shake it any more than he can shake the silence from Billy this morning. The way he ignored phone calls and texts. The way he went to bed without so much as a celebratory drink or story. The way he looked, the way he walked, the way he was.

Like he isn’t quite _Billy_ anymore.

Long term undercover ops are hard, and they put pressure on operatives. That could be all this is. Billy needs some time to acclimatize.

Or it could be something else.

Michael knows logically that he’s reading too much into this, but this time he can’t ignore his gut.

He won’t.

With new resolve, Michael presses down on the gas and speeds back to the hotel.

-o-

When he gets there, Michael goes straight to the stairs, jogging up them two at a time. His heart is pounding when he reaches the top, and he tells himself it’s just from the physical exertion.

This is stupid, he tells himself, even as he walks down the corridor toward Billy’s room. This is paranoia at its worse. He’ll knock and Billy will let him in and they’ll laugh about how badly this mission has warped them both. Michael will take Billy out for lunch and joke about how they need to get back to Langley so things can go back to normal.

That’s what will happen.

That’s what _has_ to happen.

The thought bolsters his optimism, but he still knocks, knuckles rapping on the door. He glances down the hall, waiting for the inevitable reply.

When several moments pass with no response, Michael tries again, this time calling, “Billy?”

Billy’s a light sleeper -- he’s a spy, that much is a given -- so Michael fully expects an answer. There’s no reason for Billy not to answer.

Trying again, Michael says, “Hey, Billy. You in there?”

Unless Billy’s _not_ in there. Maybe he went out. Obviously Billy knows he has to keep a low profile, but the Scot’s good at being innocuous when he wants to be. He could slip into the hotel bar with no questions asked.

With that in mind, Michael pulls out his phone and dials, lingering by the door with another wary eye down the hall. It’s starts ringing, and Michael is thinking of a snarky answer when he hear something from inside the room.

Turning back toward the door, he leans closer. “Billy?” he asks. Then he hears it again.

Billy’s phone. It’s ringing.

Which means Billy _is_ inside -- and not answering.

Frowning now, Michael almost pounds on the door. “Billy!” he says. “Open up! Or I’m coming in.”

It’s a bit presumptuous -- or a lot presumptuous -- but Michael is team leader and Billy’s his responsibility, and he just spent five months having no viable means to check up on his operative whenever he wanted to. Now that he does have such a luxury, he’s sure as hell not going to be stopped by a _door._

Besides, it’s not like ODS hasn’t made a habit of breaking into each other’s homes. Michael considers it a worthwhile pastime, and Billy’s returned the favor more than once.

This is fair game.

At least that’s what Michael tells himself as he pulled out his key. Since he booked the room, he has the backup copy. This was never explicitly stated, but it was surely assumed. There is no such thing as privacy in the ODS.

The light flashes, and Michael turns the knob, letting himself in cautiously. He doesn’t get far before he has to step over the first article of clothing. Glancing inward, it’s obviously that the place is a mess. This isn’t unusual for Billy, of course, though usually it takes him more than 24 hours to accrue a mess of this size. It looks like the Scot has taken everything in his suitcase out and flung it around, which gives Michael some trepidation.

Still, there’s no furniture overturned, which makes an altercation unlikely. But Billy seems to have taken objection to the ice bucket and plastic cups on the dresser, because they’re in a scattered mess at Michael’s feet.

Even as he mentally tells himself it’s nothing again, Michael finds himself reaching unconsciously for the gun he’s carrying. “Billy?” he calls out.

There’s a small, wretched noise from the bathroom. Michael’s pulse leaps in his throat. _Billy._

Quickly, he makes his way through the debris on the floor, hesitating with his hand on the knob for the briefest of moments. “Billy?”

There’s a noise, ragged and human -- almost like a sob. It’s hard to tell, though, with the sound of the shower and the running water from Michael can only assume is the shower. He’s about to consider giving Billy some privacy after all, when he hears the noise again, louder and more distinct this time -- definitely a cry.

All hesitations aside, Michael swing the door open, hand on his gun as he steps in. 

The bathroom is just as much of a mess as the rest of the room. The toiletries are scattered all over the floor, and whole rolls of toilet paper are floating in the toilet. The sink is running along with the shower, which is making a puddle on the floor from where it’s splashing around the half open shower curtain.

And that’s when Michael sees Billy.

The Scotsman is curled up in the shower, still dressed in his slacks and undershirt from the night before, though his dress shirt and vest are gone. His knees are against his chest, and he’s got himself pressed against the tile with his head buried in knees while he visibly shivers.

“Billy, what the hell?” Michael hears himself exclaim as he crosses the tiny bathroom and reaches into the shower to turn the water off. He almost flinches as he fumbles with the dial -- the water is ice cold.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he wonders just how long Billy has been sitting there under the deluge.

“Billy?” Michael tries again, looking at his operative, whose wet hair is plastered to his head even as his fists grip the soggy fabric of his pants.

“Nooo,” Billy moans -- a plaintive, almost inhuman sound. He twitches a little, shoulders balling up as his body seems to curl in tighter on itself.

Michael’s concern is quickly turning into fear. “Billy,” he tries again, reaching out to touch his friend. “It’s me, Michael--”

But the second Michael’s fingers brush against Billy’s arm, the Scotsman recoils, jolting violently as his head comes up and smacks against the tile. 

“Billy!” Michael says, trying to make his order not sound like the plea it is.

Billy’s eyes are squeezed shut and he shakes his head in what appears to be agony. “Michael, Michael, please, no,” he groans, the words slurring together almost unintelligibly. “I need, I need -- oh, God -- _they’re under my skin!_ ”

The last words are practically a wail as Billy begins to scratch frantically at the skin of his exposed arms, leaving red trails with his nails over the goose-pimpled flesh.

“Easy, Billy. Calm down--” Michael says, nearly pleading again as he tries to grab ahold of Billy’s hands while he thrashes. Blood is starting to well up in earnest now, smearing with the moisture on Billy’s skin to look even worse than Michael logically knows it is.

Either way, this is bad enough.

This is bad.

Billy is almost incoherent -- and he’s starting to scare the hell out of Michael. How long had he been like this?

“They’re crawling,” Billy cries, twisting with more strength than he looks capable of right now. “They’re crawling all over. Get them off!” 

Whatever the issue is, it can’t be solved in the bathroom. Not with Billy bleeding and raving and God knows what else. “There’s nothing there, Collins,” Michael says in his most authoritative voice. He doesn’t pull rank often -- it’s not usually necessary -- but he can and he will. “Collins, _look at me._ ”

With the order, Billy finally seems to hear him. It takes a moment -- a long, painful moment -- before Billy manages to lift his head and turn his eyes toward Michael, Michael almost wishes he hadn’t. 

Because Billy’s eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. His cheeks are pale, almost gaunt with the thickening stubble. There’s recognition, at least, but it’s clouded by something wretched -- something _haunted_ \-- in the younger man’s countenance.

Billy’s broken somehow. Michael’s not sure of all the details of Billy’s undercover work, but he can’t deny the possibility that something more sinister happened. And he wouldn’t put it past Billy to hide it from him. In fact, there’s no doubt he would.

Michael had worried about Billy, but he hadn’t seen any signs. At least, no signs that he couldn’t explain away. That he couldn’t justify. He’d thought Billy was okay -- or that he would be. He’d thought that if they could just finish the operation, everything would go back to normal.

Except now Billy’s clawing his skin in a cold shower.

And it’s Michael’s fault.

Because this was Michael’s operation. Because Michael made the call to send Billy in. Because Michael made the call to keep him there for five months.

It’s Michael’s _fault._

“You’re bleeding,” he finally says dumbly, if only because that was probably the only thing in this whole damn mess that he could actually deal with. “I’m going to get a towel and some bandages and clean this up, okay?”

Billy says nothing but curls up even tighter, his gaze drifting off as he shivers.

Michael swallows, stifling a curse. The Scot is showing no signs of moving -- hell, he barely seems cognizant. Michael is going to have to haul him out of that shower and manhandle him into dry clothes at this rate.

But first things first.

Gingerly, he gets to his feet. The bathroom is a mess, but he finds a relatively clean pair of washcloths on the floor. Carefully, he kneels back down in front of Billy and begins drying off his arms. Billy doesn’t resist as Michael takes his wrist, stretching out his arm and mopping up the oozing blood. He’s relieved to see that the scrapes aren’t deep -- they should heal quickly, with no further problems.

But that’s when Michael sees something else.

The marks are different from the rest, closer to the elbow. Michael wipes away the blood again, leaning closer to get a better look.

At first, he’s not sure what they are. They’re like punctures, small and round -- but there are a whole series of them. Almost like...

Michael’s stomach drops.

Track marks.

Michael doesn’t want to believe it, but there’s no denying what the marks are. And there’s no denying the implications.  
 _  
Traitors call out the speck in their brother’s eye without removing the plank in their own. Mr. Everett has many planks, and he will find that others are not as forgiving of such things as we are.  
_  
The implications of Ortiz’s words are suddenly painfully clear. Because Billy was undercover as a drug dealer. Drug dealers aren’t junkies, but they are known to sample their product. It’s all part of the business. Normal and expected.

And Michael had kept Billy with that cover for five months.

While they shipped cocaine.

Michael’s stomach turns, and for a moment he wants to be sick. Billy’s got track marks. Billy spent five months with drug dealers around cocaine. Billy’s incoherent in a shower, trying to scratch his skin off.

He knows what this means. He _knows_ and he doesn’t want to admit it. Because Michael’s planned for a lot of things, but he hasn’t counted on detoxing Billy from a drug addiction among them.

Looking at the Scot, still curled up and wretched, it’s pretty clear that’s what he’s going to have to do.

Then, Billy trembles, shuddering violently a few times as he whimpers and turns his head away, as if to block out some imagined horror. Numbly, Michael continues drying Billy’s arms before finding the meager first aid kit from Billy’s travel bag. He treats the wounds carefully, lathering them with out of date antibiotic ointment before wrapping them in gauze.

All while trying _not_ to look at the weeping holes in the crook of Billy’s elbow.

He grits his teeth together, treating the last of the wounds. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he asks, his throat tight.

He doesn’t actually expect Billy to answer, but the Scot moans, shifting beneath Michael touch. His head presses further to the side, almost as if he’s trying to melt into the tile. “Thought...I could handle it...myself...”

The words are wheezing and desperate, a ghost of Billy’s normally confident rhetoric.

Billy’s face screws up, and he shudders again. “Wanted the mission to be perfect,” he all but cries, fresh tears leaking from his closed eyes.

Perfect.

It had been perfect. Everything had gone just like planned, like clockwork. Everything had been enacted without a hitch.

Except for the operative who picked up a drug habit undercover. A drug habit Michael didn’t see but should have warned against. A drug habit that probably saved the cover.

After all, Michael had sent Billy undercover as a drug dealer. And Billy had nailed the mannerisms and the lingo -- and the extracurricular activities.

Perfectly.

As he finishes wrapping Billy’s wounds, Michael has never hated the cruel irony of perfection more.

-o-

Michael says nothing as he finishes up, and by the time he helps Billy to his feet, the Scot seems to have come back to his senses. His eyes are open, if scared, and he allows Michael to help him out of the tub and move back into the main room.

With the mess, Michael’s not sure what’s clean and what’s not, but at this point, he’ll settle for something dry. Billy doesn’t resist as Michael forcibly takes his soaked t-shirt off, snagging a towel to pat his torso dry. It’s awkward as hell, and he can’t help but notice that Billy’s lost some weight. He’s not emaciated or anything, but his ribs are more prominent than they should be, and Michael is more than somewhat eager to get a shirt back on the other man so neither of them have to see it.

He finds a new shirt on the floor, lifting it up over Billy’s head before the Scot finagles his too-skinny arms into the holes. When Michael finds a new pair of boxers, Billy sheepishly takes them. “I can do this part, I reckon,” he says, his head ducked, as if he’s afraid to look Michael in the eye.

“You sure?” Michael asks, uncertain about letting Billy out of his sight.

Billy lifts his head, giving Michael a self-deprecating smile -- at least, that’s the intention. It almost looks garish on his face, a poor approximation of Billy’s normal joking demeanor. “It’s the bathroom, Michael,” he says plainly.

That’s not an overly compelling argument.

Billy looks down again, clearly embarrassed. “If I had any drugs, I would have taken them by now,” he says almost feebly.

That’s a much better argument, and Michael guiltily concedes the point. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”

Billy says nothing, turning and hobbling unsteadily back toward the bathroom. The door snicks shut, and Michael finds himself lingering closer, listening to the small sounds of movement as Billy presumably undresses his bottom half.

For the first time since Michael showed up in Billy’s hotel room, he has the chance to think about what’s happened. It’s shocking on one level. But it also makes sense, like the last piece of the puzzle finally coming into place. 

That’s the crux of it, really. Michael should have seen this. As Billy’s primary contact for five months, he _should have seen this._

Because Billy’s in detox. Hell, Billy’s a _drug addict._

It’s harsh to think of it like that, but Michael can’t wrap his mind around it any other way. There are plenty of logical reasons for why this happened, but none of it changed the consequences. Billy can’t go back to the CIA hooked on cocaine. They’ll take him off field duty in an instant. Billy knows that, which is why he’s locked himself in his hotel room to ostensibly fend it off.

But it never should have gotten to this point. Michael’s stomach twists, this time with a flair of anger. It was so stupid -- Billy knew better. He’s cavalier in a lot of things, and he’s certainly not one to consider his body his temple, but _Billy knows better._ He may drink too much, and he certainly doesn’t eat the most balanced diet, but he’s never been so stupid as to turn to drugs. 

Even on a mission, Billy could have found ways around it. 

For a few months, maybe, anyway. Longer than that...

Michael closes his eyes. Longer than that and Billy would have no choice. No wonder Billy’s entire disposition shifted. After a few months, he’d gotten himself addicted to cocaine. And Michael can’t even be sure if Billy’s desire to stay under was all noble anymore. Not necessarily that Billy wanted to stay in that kind of life, but he probably didn’t want to face reality.  
 _  
This_ reality.

Detoxing by himself in a lonely hotel room, suffering in silence to protect his career, his friendship -- his dignity.

Suddenly, the door opens, and Michael steps back, looking expectant as Billy shuffles back out. The wet clothes are gone now, and he doesn’t look up as he makes his way past Michael and sits gingerly on the bed.

Michael watches him, taking in the guarded mannerisms, the uncomfortably introverted behavior.

He sighs. “You want to tell me what happened?” he asks finally.

Billy swallows, glancing up only briefly before his gaze veers off again. He shrugs one shoulder.

“Billy,” Michael says with as much patience as he can muster. “You’re addicted, right?”

“I didn’t take a shower with my clothes on just for the sheer fun of it,” Billy admits dejectedly.

“Cocaine?”

Billy nods.

“Anything else?”

Billy’s eyes dart up. “That’s not enough?”

Michael works his jaw. “How long?”

Looking down again, Billy seems to slouch further. “Two months,” he says. “I was able to avoid it for the first month and a half, and for a bit after I got by with only partial hits from time to time. But I was there so long...they were starting to notice.” He looks up at Michael again, his eyes gleaming. “You have to believe me, Michael. I thought it’d just be once or twice and then I’d be out. But the mission didn’t end, and they were starting to talk about it. I kept thinking it’d just be one more day, one more time -- and I wouldn’t get addicted. I promise--” His voices breaks, and he cuts off with a sob, looking back down again. 

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Michael asks, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“It wasn’t part of the operational guidelines,” Billy says. He shakes his head miserably. “It didn’t change anything.”

“Except it left you compromised,” Michael snaps, more harshly than he intends. He holds back the urge to swear. “What if you overdosed? Huh? What if you took too much and died undercover? What would you have done then, huh? Where would our _mission_ have been then?”

Billy looks up, eyes wide. “I was careful--”

Michael slams his hand against the wall. “Bullshit!” he exclaims, the anger peaking uncontrollably. “You’re addicted to _cocaine,_ Billy. There’s nothing careful about it.”

The look on Billy’s face is nothing short of devastation. He looks like he’s been kicked in the gut, and all the fight -- whatever little he had -- just leaves him. 

Just that fast, Michael’s anger dissipates. “Billy,” he tries again, more gently this time. “You should have told me--”

Billy blinks rapidly, closing his mouth and looking away. “I did this on my own,” he says, voice taut. “So I can fix it on my own.”

“Billy--”

Billy shakes his eyes, and when he looks at Michael, his blue eyes are hard with pain. “I’ve made it this far on my own.”

“Yeah, and look how good that’s gone,” Michael quips despite him.

Billy’s face screws up with pain, but he blocks it quickly. “Just give me the week,” he says. “One week, and I can kick this. I promise you, Michael. I will do this or--”

Michael snorts. “Or what? You’ll die trying?”

Billy nods. “If I have to.”

Michael rolls his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “And I’m just supposed to walk away?”

This time, Billy’s eyes flash with resentment. “That is what you do, isn’t it? Make the plans and leave someone else to do the dirty work?”

The jab is sharp, and Michael stiffens. “You know what, fine,” he says. “You _did_ do this to yourself, so don’t come crying to me when you’re crawling out of your skin.”

“I haven’t yet,” Billy returns. 

It’s stupid. It’s all so stupid, and Billy’s being stupid, and Michael can’t take the _stupid_ anymore. In fact, he can’t take anything at all.

“Fine,” he says, moving decidedly for the door. Because he’s had enough; he’s done his part and he wants this to be over -- one way or another.

He opens the door with such a flourish and closes it so soundly that he almost doesn’t hear the muffled, strangled sob from inside the room.

Almost.  
 _  
Almost.  
_  
Michael only makes it halfway down the hall before he just stops. He slumps against the wall, sinking down and burying his head in his knees, wondering how the hell _perfect_ became a _nightmare_ so quickly.

-o-

Michael’s not sure how long he stands there, because suddenly time doesn’t really mean anything at all. Five months, five minutes -- it’s all too long, and Michael doesn’t want to walk away any more than he wants to go back.

He just doesn’t want it to be like this. It can’t be like this. They’ve never screwed it up this bad, except when Carson got blown to hell in North Africa. Michael doesn’t let stuff like this happen. After Carson, Michael had promised himself he’d be in control of everything, that nothing bad would happen to his team.

But now Billy’s a _cocaine addict._

Michael has to tell himself that again and again, just to make himself believe it. It doesn’t seem possible. It doesn’t seem real. It doesn’t even make sense. Billy’s not that stupid. He can’t really be that stupid.

But what was he supposed to do? Five months undercover, what was Billy supposed to do? It wasn’t a purely recreational choice. It was part of the character. Billy might have fudged it for a few weeks or a month or two, but five months? Someone would have needed to see him take a hit or everything would have fallen apart.

And Billy doesn’t let things fall apart. That’s why he’s the guy for those kind of missions -- because he keeps a cover and he keeps it so completely that there’s never any room for doubt.

It’s not Billy who was stupid. It was Michael. 

No matter what Billy says, this is Michael’s doing. No matter who slid the needle into Billy’s arm, this is Michael’s fault.

This is Michael’s mission, and he has to see it through.

He lifts his head and looks back down the hall.

Even to the bitter end.


	2. Chapter 2

This time, Michael knocks once before simply letting himself in. He hears the toilet flush, and inches forward, finding the bathroom door partially ajar. He hesitates, in case Billy needs some privacy, but Billy is half curled on the floor, draped across the open toilet lid.

Michael doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Billy moans. “I told you to leave,” he says, the words heavy and miserable.

Sighing, Michael shrugs. “Fortunately you’re not the one in charge.”

This time, Billy lifts his head enough to look up at Michael. His face is pale and sallow, dark circles more prominent under his eyes and the dark stubble stark on his face. He looks terrible, exhausted and broken. Almost defeated. “This isn’t your fight, Michael,” he says. “I don’t want you--”

He breaks off, convulsing. It starts as a choke and then he shudders, heaving over the toilet again. It takes all of Michael’s willpower not to walk away again as the stench of vomit fills the air. Billy pauses, but the vomiting starts again until Billy is left breathless and heaving over the toilet, entirely spent.

It’d be easy to leave him there.

Michael doesn’t do easy. He does what needs to be done.

With resolve, he steps forward, gently pulling on Billy’s arm. The Scot looks up in surprise, eyes wet. “Come on,” Michael says. “We’ve got a long go ahead of us, and you need to rest someplace other than the floor.”

Billy’s forehead screws up, and he shakes his head. “I can’t let you see me like this,” he says. “Please.”

Michael shakes his head. “I sent you undercover,” he says. “I’m getting you back out -- all the way out.”

“Michael--” Billy says, almost pleading as his voice breaks.

Michael doesn’t waver, though. Instead he looks Billy straight in the eyes. “You did what you had to do undercover,” he says. “Now I’m going to do what I need to do -- no matter what you think about it.”

Billy still looks embarrassed, but it’s a fight he can’t win, and Billy hardly has the strength to fight him. This time, when Michael lifts him up, Billy obeys. His footing is unstable, but Michael balances him until they’re both steady, and then they walk back toward the bedroom.

It takes work to get Billy settled back on the bed, but the Scot seems to melt into the pillows. He breathes deeply, eyes already drifting closed. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I never meant -- I never wanted--”

Michael sighs and settles back into the chair. “Me neither, buddy,” he says. “But we’ll get through it, okay? Together.”

Billy just closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

-o-

After the initial shock, Michael decides to approach the issue of Billy’s cocaine addiction like everything else in his life. Simple and methodical. While Billy is sleeping, he excuses himself to go get his laptop, and he powers up and settles in. 

Billy is still dozing when Michael steps outside, making a few fleeting phone calls to the local authorities and the Agency, covering his bases. He responds to a string of text messages from Rick, who seems quite anxious to come visit Billy for himself.

That’s an interesting proposition, and in some ways, Michael considers it. Rick would want to know -- in many ways, Rick might be better equipped for the patience and sympathy Michael is pretty sure this process is going to require. But calling Martinez over wouldn’t be for Billy; it’d be for Michael. Billy’s gone to great lengths to hide this thing, and Michael won’t soon forget the frantic mess he’d found on the shower floor a few hours ago. Billy can hardly look him in the eye as it is, there’s no reason to subject him to Martinez’s pity, no matter how well intentioned it is.

And bringing in Casey would be even worse. Michael’s not entirely sure how Malick would respond, but there’s a good possibility that it wouldn’t be good. Casey doesn’t cope well with weakness, and there’s no question, Billy’s pretty weak right now. Michael doesn’t want to take the chance of Casey thinking less of Billy. That kind of break of trust between Casey and Billy might never be repaired.

No, this is Michael’s job. This is Michael’s burden. This is his mission, and he will do it -- alone.

At least, as long as he can.

When he settles back into the room, Billy’s still sound asleep, mouth open as he’s curled up on his side. Although Michael has some work he could do, he finds himself bringing up a secure browser and looking up the symptoms of cocaine withdrawal.

It’s not pretty. Chills and nausea; aches and paranoia. Withdrawal is cruel and indiscriminate. It doesn’t care about good intentions or missions gone wrong. It’s about a chemical dependency that completely alters the way the body responds to the world around it. When the body is deprived of that chemical, it nearly turns on itself to get what it wants.

The literature is pretty clear that there’s no way Billy could do this alone -- not without locking himself in and tying himself down, and even then, he’d probably end up too incoherent to keep himself fed and watered. In fact, as Michael reads several accounts, he’s beginning to wonder if Billy’s going to need further medical intervention in order to make it through.

Michael’s never been a fan of getting outside help, but he’s done it when necessary. He’d do it this time, too.

Except the second a doctor sees Billy, Michael can’t keep this a secret any longer. Billy’s addiction will become part of the mission. It will be documented and considered. Billy would most likely be stripped of his field status.

Michael won’t let Billy die for this, but he won’t risk Billy’s career unless he has to.

Chewing his lip, he looks at Billy, who snuffles in his sleep and flops over onto his back before lapsing back into stillness. Besides, it may not get that bad. Withdrawal varies from person to person, and it depends on the extent of the addiction. Billy’s only been on drugs for a few months, and even with that, he trusts Billy enough to know that he wouldn’t have pushed it at the start. Even when the addiction took over, Billy would have fought it.

So maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe they’ll get lucky. Maybe they’ll spend a few days locked in a hotel room and come out no worse for wear on the other side.

Maybe.

Michael looks back at his computer screen, looking at the percentages of people who relapse, the ones who never kick the habit. The ones who are destroyed by the drug, who never come back.

He closes the laptop.

That’s not Billy.

Michael won’t let that be Billy.

-o-

The hours pass, and Michael has a plan. He makes a run to the vending machines and buys as much water and snacks as he can afford. The selection isn’t great, but the pretzels and granola bars are better than nothing. He opens up the room service menu and marks a few items for future reference. There’s a good chance Billy won’t be hungry for much, but one of Michael’s primary concerns will be to keep him hydrated and fed.

He also takes time to clean up a bit. It’s impossible to tell what’s actually clean and what’s not, but he mops up the water in the bathroom and hangs the towels to dry. He folds Billy’s clothes and puts them into the drawers nearly, leaving the suitcase available for the dirty items as Billy goes through them over the next couple of days.

Then, he takes the time to reassemble the coffee maker and is pleased to find at least one cup that hasn’t been crushed beyond recognition. He primly makes the second bed and rearranges the furniture to promote movement in the room. He picks up any trash and puts it neatly in the bins and then takes the time to make sure that the “no service” sign is on the door. 

He stands back, looking over the room. The clutter is picked up and his selection of food has been neatly organized on the dresser. He’s contemplating ordering up more towels, when Billy stirs on the bed.

There’s no way in which this isn’t awkward, so Michael doesn’t try to busy himself. Instead, he watches, giving Billy a tepid grin as the Scot rolls over and finally looks at Michael.

Billy swallows, his brow creasing. It’s clear from his face that he half-hoped Michael wouldn’t be here. “Usually when I wake up with someone uninvited in my bedroom, they are a bit more attractive,” he quips.

The quip is so unexpected that Michael’s laugh is almost choked off. He recovers quickly, letting the tension drain out of his shoulders as he smirks. “You should be flattered,” he says. “I could do much better.”

Billy hums a little as he works to prop himself up in bed. “In my present state, I would have to agree.”

Michael sobers a little. “How are you feeling?”

Billy sighs. “Right now, more humiliated than actually awful,” he says. “Though I have this nagging _hunger…_ ”

“I bought some snacks,” Michael says, nodding toward the dresser.

Billy glances that direction, looking meek. “Ah,” he says. “Not sure that’s the hunger I was talking about.”

“I know,” Michael replies hastily. “But we’ve got a long road ahead of us, so you need to keep up your strength.”

Billy makes a face. “Honestly, I’m not sure my stomach is up for it.”

Michael scoffs, walking over and picking up a bag of chips and snagging a bottle of water. “Your stomach isn’t too trustworthy right now,” he says. “In fact, nothing your body tells you is very trustworthy right now.”

He says it lightly, but Billy’s gaze diverts.

“Hey,” Michael says. “It’s your body I’m talking about, not you. This is a physical dependency. That’s all. We just have to keep you functioning enough to fight it off. You’re stronger than it.”

Billy smiles miserably. “Normally, I’d be all for the positive energy,” he says. “But this time...”

Michael sighs. “That’s why you’re not doing this alone,” he says. “I’m still your point man, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

Billy eyes him, almost daring to be hopeful. “Why are you doing this?”

Michael wrinkled his brow. “Why wouldn’t I do this?”

“Michael,” Billy says. “I screwed up. I know that. I don’t expect you -- I mean, you don’t--” He breaks off, clearly at a loss for words.

Rolling his eyes, Michael drops the food and water in Billy’s lap. “Yeah,” he says. “I do. Because you know what? I screwed up, too. But that’s what we’re going to make right, okay?”

He says it like he believes it -- and he realizes now, he _does_ believe it. Sure, drug addiction is a new one for him, but it’s not like Michael hasn’t faced unexpected trials in the field. It’s not even like he hasn’t faced potentially life threatening decisions for his teammates. This is what Michael does. This is why he’s the best at what he does. 

He _can_ do this. Drug addiction is chemical dependency. No matter what the body throws at that loss, it will filter out and Billy will be fine on the other side.

They’ll be _fine._

“Now,” Michael says, moving purposefully back to his chair. “Open your chips and drink your water. We’re going to be here for a while.”

Billy hesitates a moment more, eyeing the food on his lap with general disinterest. But finally, he lifts the bag, pulling it open and taking out a chip. He sighs, then takes a nimble bite before forcing a smile at Michael.

“See,” Michael says. “That’s not so bad.”

Billy almost looks like he believes him.

-o-

The rest of the day is actually pretty uneventful. They talk for awhile while Michael goes over some paperwork, and Billy actually has some pretty good insights to share about the mission. It’s clear that Billy went well beyond mission parameter when he fully immersed himself into his cover, which has yielded unprecedented intelligence gains. Billy knows more about the suspects and their personal history than Michael could have imagined.

Of course, he also picked up a drug habit, so Michael’s reluctant to call it a total win.

Even so, things seem to be going okay. Billy’s clearly shaky, but he hasn’t had a lapse in coherency since Michael showed up. He doesn’t eat much, but he sips his water frequently under Michael’s watchful eye. He still looks pretty bad, but when he smiles and tells stories, Michael thinks this might not be so bad after all.

After the paperwork, Billy looks edgy, so Michael dims the lights and says he’ll be out in the hall. Billy nods and swallows, trying to offer a smile to Michael as he exits the room.

In the hall, Michael stays close and makes another set of calls. To Langley, to the local authorities -- and then more texts from Rick. He’s about to assure Rick for the fifteenth time that everything is fine when the kid finally calls him.

“Hey,” Rick says, stopping awkwardly. “Um.”

“What, Martinez?” Michael asks in exasperation. 

“You answered really quick again,” Rick says.

Michael turns his eyes to the ceiling and shakes his head. Rick’s turned out to be a decent spy, but sometimes the kid makes him wonder how. “You act like that’s still a surprise.”

“Well, it’s sort of creepy--”

“Martinez--”

“Right,” Rick says. “I was just wondering--”

“No, I don’t think you should bother Billy,” Michael cuts him off.

Rick sounds absolutely crestfallen. “He still isn’t answering his phone, and it’s going straight to voicemail.”

That’s only because Michael got tired of hearing it ring after the first two hours. “I told you, Billy’s sick,” he says.

“Which is why I think he shouldn’t be alone.”

Damn the kid and his noble intentions.

Michael sighs. “I’m in the same hotel if he needs something,” he says. “Billy’s a grown man; he can handle this.”

Saying it almost hurts, because Michael knows it’s not actually true this time. Billy can’t handle this alone, which is all the more reason to keep Rick and Casey away.

“But I’m actually pretty good at the nursemaid thing,” Rick offers. “I don’t mind.”

Of course he doesn’t.

Michael runs a hand through his hair. He can’t blame the kid -- this is why the ODS is so special; this is why they can complete cases when no one else can. Not their skill or experience, but because they care about each other. Their greatest asset.

Michael’s risked that too much already in this mission. 

“There are some things a man has to do alone,” he says finally. “Just give Billy the week.”

Rick sighs. “If he needs something--”

“You will be the first person I call,” Michael promises, hoping that it doesn’t come to that.

When Rick hangs up, Michael looks back at Billy’s door. If Billy can’t get through this, it’s not just Billy’s life and career that’s at stake. It’s all of them. Because if their special bond is their greatest asset, it’s also their greatest weakness. If they lost Billy -- if any of them were taken out of play -- Michael doesn’t know how they’d make it.

He’s resolved never to find out.

-o-

Back inside, he’s pleased to find Billy’s sleeping again. He doesn’t want to make a point of watching the other man -- this entire situation is awkward enough as it is. Instead, he pulls out the latest bestseller he picked up last week and opens up to the page he left off on.

Before he starts, though, his gaze does linger, if only for a moment. It’s a funny thing, having Billy back. He’d been looking forward to it in his own way, and now here they were.

Things rarely work out the way Michael thinks they will. They don’t even work out the way he intends them to. That’s cost him a lot over the years -- Carson’s captivity, his marriage and more -- but he has to think it won’t cost him Billy.

It can’t. Billy’s right here. It’s going to be okay.

Sighing, Michael looks back at the page and starts to read.

-o-

By the time Billy wakes up, Michael is almost done with his book. He’s reaching the climax, where the brilliant spy hero has wooed the girl and is stopping general mayhem by besting all the bad guys, when he notices that Billy is looking at him.

“Hey,” he says, grinning a little. “How long have you been up?”

“Long enough to see that you’re just getting to the good stuff,” he says. “Sex or explosions?”

Michael makes a face, closing his book with a shrug. “A little of both,” he admits. “But I’m more intrigued by the complete lack of tactical insight displayed by the hero. He’s a terrible spy.”

Billy chuckles, sitting himself up and leaning against the headboard. “Normally I might join your critique, but I can’t imagine I have much of a leg to stand on right now.”

Michael scoffs, putting the book down. “If you ever do something stupid enough to immortalize you in a best seller, then we’ll really have a problem.”

Billy lifts his eyebrows. “So this snafu?”

“Would make for a pretty crappy bestseller,” Michael says.

Laughing again, Billy’s face brightens. “Aye, no arguments on that one,” he says. “I usually like to wax poetic about missions -- you know, find the inalienable silver lining, but this is one that I think I’d rather just forget.”

“And we will,” Michael says. “Which brings us to the next point.”

“Curling up in a ball and dying?” Billy asks.

“Close,” Michael says. “Dinner.”

Billy looks positively disappointed.

“You _are_ going to eat,” Michael insists. “Doesn’t have to be much, but you’re going to need your strength.”

“Really, that’s the _opposite_ of curling up in a ball and dying,” Billy says, sulking.

“That’s the point,” Michael tells him wryly.

Billy sighs. “Fine,” he agrees, shoulders slouching as he crosses his arms over his chest. “But only if you’re buying.”

“Better still,” Michael says, reaching for the phone. “We’ll charge the Agency.”

A smile lights on Billy’s face again. “Ah, yes,” he says. “The only bastards stingier than you.”

“I knew there had to be some redeeming quality to them,” Michael jokes.

“Then you may as well order something good for yourself,” Billy says. “No sense in letting the opportunity go totally to waste.”

-o-

Michael orders a simple dinner, but it still proves to be too much for Billy. Still, the Scot sits up and he eats. Even more so, Billy’s awake and alert. He’s laughing and joking. Sure, there are moments when Billy shudders, and Michael can’t help but notice the other man’s grimaces, no matter how much he tries to hide them. But he holds his dinner down, and Michael counts it all as a win.

As the night wears on, they turn on the TV and watch a few boring procedurals. It’s almost 11 when Billy’s starting to drift off again, and Michael stops his commentary on the idiocy of cops on TV and lets the TV provide a gentle background as Billy falls asleep again.

After that, Michael makes a few last calls and is sure to text Rick that all is well. He finishes off a snack, drinks a little water and then gets ready for bed himself. It’s been a long day; tomorrow will probably be another long day, but they can do this. It’s just another variable; just another wrench in the works. Michael can handle this. He will.

No matter what tomorrow brings.

-o-

Michael doesn’t realize how tired he is until he wakes up with his phone vibrating. He groans, squinting as he opens his eyes and flops over, groping for the phone on the bedside table. He’s groggy, which is unusual, and he feels strangely out of place. His fingers work on autopilot, and he’s reading a text from Martinez before he remembers.

He’s in Billy’s room.

Billy’s addicted to cocaine.

And Rick asks, “Have u seen Billy?”

Michael sighs, rolling on his back again, letting the phone fall on the bed next to him. Martinez needs more babysitting than Billy does on this mission, and Billy’s--

Michael glances to the side. Billy is still asleep, curled up on his side, facing away from Michael. In the sunlight streaming through the curtains, it is easy to see the rapid rise and fall of Billy’s breathing.

Then Michael looks at the clock, and his eyes widen. It’s after 9.

Michael never sleeps until 9. And Billy...

Hell, Billy’s been asleep for almost 10 hours. Sleepiness is part of withdrawal, and actually, if Billy’s going to be symptomatic, sleep is probably one of the better ways to go about it. 

Still, it’s a little surprising.

And the fact that he slept this long means he’s more stressed out than he thought. Fully awake, Michael picks up his phone again and shoots off a text to Rick. He sends one to Casey too, just for good measure. The other man isn’t texting obsessively, but he’ll still be concerned in his own way. Even if that means hooking up with multiple attractive partners -- possibly at the same time.

They all handle this stuff their own way. Casey uses his body; he acts. Rick uses his emotions; he worries. Michael uses his head; he plans.

Michael plans.

When he’s done with the obligatory texts -- and answering three more from Rick -- Michael sets about his morning routine as best he can. He showers and gets dressed, ordering a bit of room service afterward. When it arrives, it’s pushing 10:30, but Billy shows no signs of waking. Michael is inclined to let the other man sleep, but he also knows how little Billy ate and drank yesterday. He’s going to need to stay hydrated.

A little reluctant, he goes over to Billy. “Hey,” he says, not too loud but definitely above a whisper. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, and Michael feels stupid saying it. He has virtually no experience with children, and Billy is not a child. He’s a grown man in withdrawal, but _sleepyhead_ is the only thing Michael can force out of his mouth.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or worried when it doesn’t elicit a response.

He reaches down, hesitating slightly before touching Billy’s shoulder. “Billy.”

He expects the other man to jolt -- skittish behavior is pretty symptomatic of withdrawal -- but Billy doesn’t even twitch.

Frowning, Michael squeezes the shoulder slightly. “Billy,” he tries again.

This time, Billy’s face scrunches and he moans a little, curling in tighter on himself.

“Billy,” Michael says again, feeling a little frustrated now as he shakes again. “Time to wake up.”

Billy mumbles something this time, scowling like a sleepy toddler as he visibly tries to shrink away.

Michael sighs. “Come on, Collins,” he snaps. “Up and at ‘em.”

With this, Billy’s eyes open and he looks confused for a moment before he turns his head and looks up. He recognizes Michael -- and promptly lays his head back down.

“That’s not up and at ‘em,” Michael points out.

Billy purposefully closes his eyes. “So?”

“So,” Michael says, trying to keep his exasperation in check. “It’s pushing 11. You haven’t eaten in 12 hours.”

Billy refuses to open his eyes again. “Still not seeing your point.”

“My point,” Michael says, flinging the covers back against Billy’s will. “Is that you need to eat. You need to shower. You need to _drink._ ”

Billy makes a yelp of protest, flopping on his back to fix Michael with a glare. “I don’t need to do bloody _anything,_ ” he snarls.

Michael is almost taken aback. He presses his lips together. “Yes, you do,” he says flatly, reminding himself that hostility and irritability were to be expected. “I’m not going to let you die. Not on my watch.”

Billy snorts vindictively. “No, but you’ll let me become a cocaine addict,” he says. “Good job on that.”

It’s a bit like being suckerpunched -- it hurts like hell and Michael didn’t see it coming. He grits his teeth. “A problem I am going to remedy.”

Billy huffs, flopping back on his side. “I don’t know why you even care.”

“Because,” Michael says, going over and flinging open the curtain. Billy winces, but Michael pulls his pillows out and picks up the room service tray and lays it heavily next to Billy. “I’m your friend. And I know you’ll thank me for this someday.”

Billy props himself up on his elbows, looking at Michael with malice now. “Thank you?” Billy asks. “For, what, leaving me to rot with a drug cartel? Or torturing me in the aftermath?”

Michael’s chest is tight. “The latter,” he says sharply. “Though I will remind you that this doesn’t even come close to torture. Trust me, I’d know.”

“Oh, and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you now?” Billy asks.

“No,” Michael says. “You’re supposed to sit up and eat before I show you what types of torture I really know.”

Billy looks pissed off -- for a second, Michael thinks the other man might refuse him or worse -- but Michael is unyielding, and he just hopes Billy can’t hear his pounding heart. Because Michael’s not sure if he’s bluffing. He’s not sure of anything except the pressing need to _help Billy._

Even when Billy doesn’t want to help himself this morning.

That’s how this works; that’s why Michael had to stay. This is what he has to do.

Even if he has no idea what he’s doing.

Finally, Billy pushes himself up, leaning back against the headboard sullenly. He glances at the toast and water. “No coffee?”

“We’re going stimulant-free,” Michael says.

“Whatever,” he mutters, reaching over and taking the toast. “Can’t expect you to take pity on me, I guess.”

Michael doesn’t reply -- he doesn’t even know _how_ to reply -- but sits back and starts in on his own breakfast, watching Billy cautiously. 

This could still be worse, he knows.

He’s just beginning to worry he may find out.


	3. Chapter 3

The day doesn’t get much better. Billy is unsociable while eating, and even though he takes bites to spite Michael, he still peters out after the first piece of toast. He drinks half his water and Michael has to threaten him to take a shower. When the Scot gets out, Michael hopes the other man might be refreshed, but the opposite is true.

If anything, being more awake has made Billy even more of a pain, and he all but growls at Michael as he settles back down on the bed. Michael tries to start up a conversation, but all attempts are greeted with frustration and anger until Michael’s feeling angry and frustrated himself.

Still, Michael persists. He tries to turn on the TV but Billy complains about every channel. When Michael offers to play cards, Billy says there’s no point. “I’m already down on my luck, so you want to kick me while I’m down?” 

Michael says nothing, but it’s getting harder. It’s getting very hard, and when Michael asks to check the wounds on Billy’s arms, the Scot almost screams at him. “Just bugger off!” he exclaims. “I’m a bloody grown man, not some invalid! And I’m certainly not your pet project. Not now.”

This time, MIchael can’t help himself. “You’re a grown man addicted to cocaine,” he snaps. “I didn’t put the damn needle in your arm, but I’m sure as hell not going to let you start it up again. So shut up and hold your arms out so I can keep you from making this any worse.”

Billy’s eyes burn brightly, and for a second, Michael thinks he’s going to lash out -- fight back. Michael is bracing for a blow, when Billy’s face crumbles.

His entire body sags, and he looks down, the fight draining from his body. His defiance is gone, and left in its wake is the sad, empty shell of a man Michael once knew.

“Billy,” he says, sighing. “I--”

“You’re right,” Billy says, still not looking up. He turns his arms out, leaving them limp in front of him. “Do what you need to do.”

Michael’s mouth is open, but no words come out. What can he say? What can he do?

Finally, he just gives up and undoes the gauze. Billy doesn’t make a move, and Michael doesn’t bother trying to start up conversation again. He’s pleased to see that everything is healing with no sign of infection. The worst of the scratches have started to scab, and the injection wounds are already starting to fade.

There’s no need to wrap them again, but Michael still does it -- as much for himself as Billy.

“You know,” Michael says when he’s done. “I could pull up youtube -- and you could show me some of that annoying bagpipe music you keep trying to make me listen to.”

Billy shrugs one shoulder. 

“Come on,” Michael cajoles. “What about one of those silly viral videos? You’ve always got fifty at the office you want me to watch.”

Billy doesn’t even bother to shrug this time. Instead, he lays down, facing away from Michael. “Reckon I’ll just sleep,” he murmurs.

Sleep is not a bad plan, but Michael doesn’t fail to notice how Billy doesn’t close his eyes. He chews his lip for a moment. “You want the light off?” he asks.

“Whatever you want,” Billy says, and his voice is flat.

Michael sighs, his own chest tight. “Billy...”

He wants to say something. He wants to make it better.

But there’s nothing to say. And there’s nothing he can do to make it better.

Except wait it out.

Sighing again, Michael settles back. “Okay,” he says finally, watching as Billy stares at the wall. “If you need anything, I’ll be right here.”

-o-

Michael makes that promise, and he doesn’t deter from it. The hours are long and tedious, but Michael stays the course. 

On the bed, Billy sleeps some, but not as much as the day before. It’s hard to tell sometimes, and when Michael glances at the other man, his eyes seem to be open and closed intermittently, with no clear pattern emerging. It’s a little bothersome, but Michael doesn’t say anything. This is hard enough on both of them as it is.

When it’s time to eat, Billy obeys wordlessly, taking small bites until Michael takes pity on him and offers to throw the rest away. He goes to the bathroom when prompted, but when Michael asks a question that requires a response, the best Billy manages is a shrug or a tilt of the head. 

Other than that, Billy just stares. He stares at the ceiling; he stares at the wall. It’s almost eerie -- Billy’s total stillness -- unlike anything Michael has seen from the Scotsman. He’s seen Billy when he’s too drunk to stand up straight; he’s been with Billy when he’s only semiconscious from an injury. He’s dealt with Billy on morphine, suffering from sleep deprivation and several times when he was delirious with a fever.

He’s endured years of the Scot’s overzealous bad poetry; he’s suffered through the man’s purposefully off key singing to modern groups Michael can’t even stand in the car. He’s seen Billy take on a cover, charm women (and a few men), and finish a mission with a flourish. 

He’s seen Billy when he’s irritable and worried. He’s been with Billy when his blood sugar is too low and he starts getting nonsensical.

After Carson vanished in North Africa, he even saw Billy lose it completely, saw him crying and hysterical, a quivering mess in Michael’s arms until the grief turned to numbness and they all walked away.

But he’s never seen Billy like this.

Listless. Depressed. Not even a shadow of himself. It’s as if the drugs leaving his system are taking the best parts of Billy with it, leaving an empty, vacant wreck in their devastating wake.

Still, it could be worse, Michael reminds himself. This is expected. This is part of what happens. This will pass and Billy will be okay. The scars on his arms will heal, and the small needle tracks will look like faded bug bites. They’ll go back to Langley; they’ll carpool to work and laugh and joke about the mission from hell.

They’ll be okay.

Yet the hours drag on.

-o-

That night, when Michael is changing the bandages, Billy sighs. Michael glances at him, but doesn’t say anything while he slathers on more antiseptic and fiddles with fresh bandages.

“I liked it, you know,” Billy says after a moment.

Michael is surprised to hear him speak.

Billy’s not looking at him. His eyes are trained on the needle marks. “God help me, I _loved_ it,” he says. “By the end, there was nothing I wanted more, no part of my job that I looked forward to more. I kept my cover and I did all the work I was supposed to do, but all I wanted -- all I could _think_ about -- was the next hit.”

Michael swallows and diverts his eyes.

Billy gives a short, bitter laugh. “I told myself it was for the greater good, but that was a lie,” he says. “By the end, I took the drugs on my own. I pilfered samples; I took out loans from my cut of the profits to buy more.”

Michael’s heart clenches, and he feels sick.

“I was nothing more than a junkie,” he says. “Those bastards had me right where they wanted me. They could have asked me for anything, and I would have done it without question.”

“It was part of your cover,” Michael says. “You kept it together for the mission. You did your part perfectly.”

Billy stiffens. “You don’t know that,” he says, the words heavy and laden with grief. “Do you know what I did when you gave me the signal that it was coming to an end? I made sure to take one last hit. While you were gearing up for a tactical maneuver, I was getting high alone in my room.”

It’s a hard admission, and there’s a hint of malice in Billy’s voice that is hard to separate from the total self-loathing. In reality, the revelations are appalling. The idea of it...is difficult to stomach.

But Michael reminds himself that this is the drug, not Billy. He reminds himself that there is only so much self control one person can have, and after several months of recreational use, Billy didn’t have a chance.

Michael finishes the bandages and drops his hands. He takes a breath, and looks at Billy.

This time, the Scotsman is looking at him. His bloodshot eyes are wide and intense. He’s baiting Michael; he’s inviting condemnation and rejection. Because that’s what Billy thinks he deserves.

If it were anyone else, Michael might be inclined to grant it.

But this is Billy.

Addicted and twisted, but still Billy.

“Some things are collateral damage,” Michael say evenly. “This is no different.”

“This isn’t someone getting caught in the crossfire,” Billy says. “This isn’t a bust gone wrong. This isn’t an asset turning on us. This is me, making a choice. This is me, becoming the very thing we try to stop.” His voice wavers precariously, and he bites back what seems to be a sob. “You should have arrested me with the lot of them. Thrown me into a prison and never looked back for me.”

Guilt tears through Michael and his jaw twitches and his face hardens. “No,” he says sharply. “If you were nothing more than an addict, you wouldn’t have locked yourself into your room to get clean.”

Billy’s eyes burn with tears. “I just couldn’t face you,” he says. “Michael--”

Michael shakes his head. He’s heard enough. He can’t do this. He won’t. “You did what you had to do undercover,” he says. “Now that you’re out, we’ll do what we need to do to make you better.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” Billy asks. “I’ll always be an addict--”

“So we won’t send you undercover with another cartel, okay?” Michael snaps. “And I’ll keep driving you to work and calling you on weekends, and you won’t touch the stuff again, okay? I promise, Billy. We’re going to be okay.”

The intensity of his own words surprise him, and Billy’s countenance wavers. With a shaky breath, the Scotsman avoids tears, but his gaze drops down as he nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Michael says, putting the first aid kit away definitely. There’s an awkward silence. Michael nods again. “Okay. Now. What do you say to dinner?”

Billy doesn’t look at him.

“Okay,” Michael says. “Dinner it is.”

-o-

The rest of the night is quieter than the day. Billy sits up, mostly because Michael hasn’t given him permission to lay down. Michael turns on the TV in the evening and puts on a mindless comedy he doesn’t know the name of, letting the canned laugh track fill the room.

If Billy watches, he doesn’t laugh, and Michael fields a few texts until the uncomfortable silence is just too much. He makes a show of getting ready for bed, choosing not to comment on Billy’s complete lack of interest in making his own preparation. Instead, when Michael is in his sleep clothes and has the sheets of his bed pulled down, Billy has already laid down, curled up and facing the wall.

Hesitating, Michael wants to say something. He wants to offer some reassurance, some break in the tension.

But what? There’s nothing to say -- at least, nothing that rings with any truth.

Sighing, he turns off the light and settles down, trying to calm his working brain. Several moments pass -- maybe minutes -- and Michael feels himself starting to get sleepy when Billy’s voice breaks the stillness.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

Michael doesn’t know what to say.

“I know you blame yourself,” Billy continues in the blackness. “But I did this. You’ve done more than anyone would expect. I wouldn’t blame you for walking out. No one would.”

It’s possible that Billy’s right about that. Michael blames himself, but Billy’s the one who put the needle in his arm -- again and again and again. Michael’s done Billy a world of favors just by not reporting him straight out.

But Michael knows what happened the last time he wasn’t here. He knows what happened when Billy was alone for five months undercover.

He’s still struggling to believe that that first mistake was excusable. Walking away on Billy now -- wouldn’t even be close.

“I’m staying, Billy,” he says. “Until the end.”

To this, Billy makes no further reply. The silence extends and deepens until sleep finally comes.

-o-

Michael is still asleep when he hears a sound. He startles, coming to full alertness, reaching for the gun he has tucked under his pillow. He’s on his feet, gun up and ready, when he hears the sound again. It’s muffled but not far, something guttural and--

Retching. 

The sound is grating, and Michael winces both in disgust and sympathy. Because the smell of vomit is suddenly easy to detect, and the drawn out sound of human pain is almost more than he wants to hear. 

As bad as it is for him, though, he knows it’s worse for Billy. The retching doesn’t stop, and Michael can hear Billy straining, taking a gasping breath before it starts up again.

After several long moments, the sounds fade until all that’s left is Billy’s labored, wet breaths.

Awkwardly, Michael puts his gun away, walking carefully toward the bathroom. The door is ajar, the light spilling out into the rest of the room. Michael waits a moment longer before knocking. “Billy?”

There’s no response.

“Billy, I’m coming in,” Michael says, slowly pushing the door open. 

He’s not sure what he’s expecting to see -- he knows Billy is sick, after all -- but somehow the image is still hard to take. Billy is almost limp against the toilet, his arms splayed across the lid and his head resting heavily there. He’s slumped a bit, legs curled uncomfortably in front of him across the off-white tile. His hair is soaked with sweat, and he’s clearly shaking, fine tremors wracking his too-thin frame. He doesn’t even try to look up as Michael stands there.

It’s surreal. It strikes Michael, like a punch in the gut, that Michael has come across scenes like this before. In his time, he’s seen the worst in humanity. He’s paid off junkies for information and he’s pulled assets up off the bathroom floor to keep them in the game. He’s always done so with detachment and vague disappointment, because he’s always been better than that.

But this is Billy.

Pathetic and broken, _this is Billy._ Just like the victims he tries to save; just like the junkies he turns for their valuable lifeline to drug dealers.

Suddenly, Michael’s the one who’s nauseous. He wants to leave, wants to walk out and not come back. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t _right._

But this is how it is.

It takes all of Michael’s self control to bend down and take Billy by the arm. The Scot is pliant, and when Michael drags him to his feet, his shaky legs support him even as Michael laces an arm under Billy’s shoulders. Deftly, he flushes the toilet and walks Billy back into the room.

The Scot staggers alongside him, his head bowed. At the bed, Michael lowers him down and Billy lies listlessly on his side. Even in the dim rays of the morning sun, Michael can see that his face is ashen and his eyes are wet with tears.

Uncertain, Michael loiters. Part of him wants to offer comfort, but he’s not sure what comfort to offer that won’t seem condescending and overwrought. He hesitates long enough, and Billy’s eyes close, leaving Michael alone with the lingering questions and ever-pressing doubts.

-o-

Michael doesn’t go back to sleep, and he steps out to make a few calls before showering and getting dressed for the day. When he comes out, hair still damp, he finds Billy curled up even tighter on the bed. His eyes are open and his face is taut, as if in pain.

“Billy?” he asks, crossing the room in two steps flat. He goes to his knees next to the bed. “Billy?”

Billy hardly looks at him, his eyes clouded and his teeth chattering. He moans a little, a soft, inarticulate noise that is more an expression of misery than actual communication.

“Hey,” Michael says, softer now as he reaches a tentative hand to Billy’s brow. It’s still soaked with sweat and one touch confirms why. Billy’s burning up, and Michael realizes that with the intensity, Billy is probably not entirely lucid.

Michael falters. He’s good under pressure, but for all that he touts his time in pre-med, he knows very little about playing doctor. In fact, he’s not even a very good nursemaid.

The truth is, he’s beyond his pay grade and he’s less and less sure this is even the right course of action. Withdrawal isn’t just uncomfortable or difficult; it can have profound impacts on the body. If not handled correctly, it can cause injury. 

In short, Billy could die.

And Michael’s not even sure whose reputation he’s trying to protect -- his or Billy’s.

The self-doubt is gripping, but Michael is entirely self aware and in full possession of his faculties. A fever and chills are not uncommon or even severe withdrawal symptoms. As long as the fever doesn’t get too high and Michael can keep Billy hydrated, this is an acceptable turn of events. 

Billy’s the one who wanted to do this alone. He tried to keep Michael at bay. 

It’s not time to get help. With any luck, it never will be.

Michael tries not to think about how bad their luck has been so far.

-o-

There’s no reason to waste time on idle fears, though. Not when there are things to do. Michael’s not great with sitting and waiting, but he’s pretty damn good when there are tasks to be done, no matter how menial they may seem.

Michael makes a quick run to his room and raids his own first aid kit, which is better stocked than Billy’s. He stops off at the vending machine to buy some crackers and water for something resembling breakfast, and then gets back to Billy’s side.

The Scot hasn’t stirred, and he only moans faintly when Michael presses the thermometer into Billy’s ear. After a moment, it beeps, and Michael reads the screen. 102.9 -- that’s a bit high but certainly nothing life threatening. They can cope with 102.9.

Cope being an active verb. Michael isn’t about to give Billy Tylenol while he’s in detox -- at least not without extensive research on the subject -- but he knows there are other options to try to control the fever. He starts by sorting through the towels, and makes a mental note to call down for fresh ones to be delivered later today. 

Still, he finds a few washcloths that are used but not dirty and he runs tepid water over one, ringing it out before going back to Billy’s side. 

On the bed, Billy hasn’t moved, and he whimpers faintly when Michael carefully arranges the washcloth.

When that’s done, he checks their supplies and rearranges what they have on stock. He sorts the gauze and the antiseptic, and makes a call to request several items from the front desk. Then, he puts a fresh thing of water by Billy’s bed and settles back to eat his crackers and drink a bottle of water of his own.

He’s ready. Whatever the day will bring, Michael is as ready as he can be.

-o-

When Billy rouses several hours later, Michael is optimistic. He doesn’t want to admit it (not that there’s anyone to admit it to), but he’s getting sort of bored doing nothing. Cocaine withdrawal is a fairly serious issue, and Michael feels as though it shouldn’t involve so much painstaking nothingness.

But when Billy’s eyes flutter, his face flushes and he curls in sharply with a cry. He makes an inarticulate sound of pain, and Michael barely manages to snag a trashcan in time to roll Billy over the side of the bed to vomit.

It’s not clear how coherent Billy is, and Michael is poorly situated as he tries to keep the Scotsman from face planting into his own bile. Trying to get him to hit the trash can is even more of a trial and while Billy’s body shakes and convulses, Michael’s own muscles burn with the strain of holding him up.

When it’s done, Billy is sagging and spent in his arms. He’s wheezing, and when Michael finally shifts him back onto the bed, his eyes are open and wet, his face twisted in agony. “Hurts,” he moans.

Michael frowns, smoothing a hand across Billy’s brow. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry about that.”

Billy’s eyes screw shut and he tips his head back as he half-chokes on a sob. “It just _hurts so much,_ ” he says, his voice thin and brittle. “Please. _Hurts._ ”

At this point, Michael’s question regarding coherency has mostly been answered. There’s no way Billy would admit to this much weakness if he were in full control of his faculties.

Of course, Billy’s never been a cocaine addict before, so Michael’s point of reference is entirely skewed.

Still, he feels fairly confident that Billy won’t understand any explanation as to why it hurts or what they need to do to get through it. At this point, Billy just needs comfort.

Michael’s not devoid of compassion, but his ability to relate to the pain of others has never been his strong suit. Fay complained all the time about how insensitive he was. It’s not that he can’t recognize the pain other people experience; it’s just that he rarely sees reason to offer them comfort since it is nothing he can control and usually mostly their own doing.

Billy’s body is shaking a chemical dependency. Billy’s the one who injected himself with the drug, not Michael. In that sense, this wretched state is Billy’s own doing.

But Michael should have stopped it. Months ago. He should have stopped it before it started. This was his mission, and this is a variable he failed to control or foresee.

This is his fault, he reminds himself starkly.

Billy, curled up and in pain, is _his_ fault. At this point, Michael can’t stop the suffering, but he can offer comfort.

That’s all he _can_ do.

Swallowing, he reaches out again, squeezing Billy’s shoulder. “I know, buddy,” he says. “But you just have to keep fighting it, okay? You’re going to get through this, even if you don’t think you will.” 

Billy whines pitifully again, head tossing as he thrashes a little. 

Michael’s heart thuds woodenly against his chest. “I’m going to get you through this.”

That’s the promise he made at the start.

It’s never been more important than it is now.

-o-

Billy’s temperature stays steady, even as Michael rotates the washcloths every hour or so. Almost like clockwork, Billy rouses every two hours, and Michael is ready now, one hand bracing Billy, the other lifting the can for him to throw up into.

When he’s done, Michael sits him up before he drifts back to sleep, cajoling him into drinking some water, though more of it dribbles down his chin than makes it into his mouth. His eyes are already shut when Michael finally gives up, letting Billy slump back to the mattress with a groan.

Around midday, Michael braves a trip to the bathroom with Billy, mostly dragging the Scotsman who cries in pain the entire time. His legs give out when they get there, and he’s begging for a reprieve when Michael finally just works down the elastic and puts Billy on the toilet himself. 

It’s messy and unglamorous, and Michael’s face is pinched while he lugs the other man back to the bed. He half drops Billy to the sheets, and as he’s maneuvering the other man’s legs onto the mattress, he’s surprised to find Billy looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding more miserable than before. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Michael works his jaw, pressing his lips together as he arranges Billy’s pillows and settles him back.

Billy’s face contorts and tears leak from his eyes. “You shouldn’t have to--” he starts, breath hitching. “Michael, you don’t have to do this.”

“We’re a team,” Michael says, as if that should explain everything. It’s a common catch-all for the ODS, but it feels strained now.

Billy inhales sharply, grinding his teeth together so hard that Michael can hear the enamel grating. “Michael, I’m sorry,” he almost sobs. “I’m sorry. I was too weak. I’m too weak. I’m _sorry._ ”

Any frustration or animosity is hard to hold, and Michael’s heart threatens to break. This shouldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t be Billy.

It shouldn’t _be._

But it is.

God help him, this is how it is.

Sighing, he pats Billy’s arm one more time. “I know,” he says.

It’s not clear if Billy hears him as he cries out again, curling over on his side as he whimpers before his face eases slightly and he slips back toward an inevitable sleep.

Billy’s not the only one who’s sorry.

-o-

The day is painful and long. Michael feels restless. He wants to get out of the room so badly -- and every time he considers sneaking out for just a little bit, he looks at Billy and feels guilty. Billy’s doesn’t have the luxury of going. For five months, while Michael exchanged snarky texts with Martinez and had deep late night phone conversations with Fay, Billy was undercover, living life as a drug dealer.

Getting addicted to cocaine.

Michael had no choice but to leave Billy then. He can’t do it now.

So Michael stays.

He endures the moments, almost like a penance.

Sometimes he wishes it was, that he could do his term and earn his absolution. That it could be that easy.

This is a lot of things, but easy isn’t one of them.

-o-

In the late afternoon, he has no choice but to step outside to make phone calls. He finalizes a few things over the phone -- confirming that the last of the suspects had been properly filed through the local courts and charged -- before texting Martinez for the fifteenth time. When his phone buzzes with a call, he groans, but when he looks at the number it’s not Martinez.

Curious, he answers. “Casey?”

“Something’s wrong,” Casey announces.

Michael smirks a little, despite the weight of the accusation. Only Casey would be so blunt, though it would be naive to expect him _not_ to notice.

That didn’t mean Michael was giving up his cards just yet, though.

“What you do in your personal time is your problem, Malick,” he says. “Just get it straightened out by the time our flight takes off next week.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Casey replies tersely.

“I’ve been kind of busy,” Michael says, doing his best to sound exasperated. “So I don’t--”

“Billy,” Casey interjects gruffly. “What’s wrong with Billy?”

“Collins?” Michael asks. “He’s been generally slothful. I think he’s making up for five months in one week.”

“So you’ve checked on him?” Casey asks.

“Saw him just this morning,” Michael says.

“And he’s fine,” Casey confirms.

“As fine as Billy ever is,” Michael offers cryptically. “I mean, Collins is only marginally competent in his personal life back home. What do you expect after a mission like this?”

“I expect random messages and invitations to get drinks,” Casey says. “I expect stories I don’t want to hear about events that probably didn’t happen while he manages to get someone else to pay for the drinks he manages to consume mostly by himself.”

“So?” Michael asks.

“So,” Casey continues. “He hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. Not once.”

“You’re getting as bad as Martinez,” Michael deflects. “Clingy.”

“Now you’re avoiding the point, and I may have to be actually concerned,” Casey says. “What aren’t you telling me?”

It’s tempting. Of all of them, Casey’s always been the one who’s had the easiest time with the truth. Michael can count the number of actual lies he’s told Malick on one hand.

And really, Casey could be perfect for this kind of thing. He knows more about the human body than Michael does, and his skills as a medic are actually not bad. And he has a soft spot for Billy.

Which is why Michael can’t risk it. The dynamic between Casey and Billy is too particular. This could bring them together -- or it could tear them apart.

“If I could tell you, don’t you think I would by now?” Michael asks coyly.

“Michael, I don’t like being lied to,” Casey replies.

“You’re just going to have to trust me on this one,” Michael says, closing his eyes for a moment and hoping for a reprieve.

There’s a strained silence. “You promise me that everything is alright?”

Michael chokes back a bitter laugh. “I promise you it will be.”

The next silence is careful and measured. “Fine,” Casey says. “But if something happens--”

“You’ll be the first person I call,” Michael promises.

Even as he hopes it never comes to that.

-o-

Going back inside gets harder each time Michael does it. The room is dim and seems to suck the life right out of him. He hasn’t done much of anything in the last few days to warrant exhaustion, but being inside makes him feel instantly undone.

Plus, it smells stale and a little stank. Michael’s done what he can to keep the place in order, but the smell of vomit is hard to mask.

And all that is without even looking at Billy.

Still, being in the CIA is about doing the dirty work, even when it’s not exactly sanctioned.

Michael’s pretty sure that helping a colleague detox from a cocaine addiction in a seedy motel room is about as off the books as it gets.

He’s quiet, but he hasn’t had to be silent because Billy’s slept heavily for most of the day. So Michael is surprised to see Billy stir, blinking drowsy eyes up at him. The Scot makes no effort to get up, but he smiles faintly. “Thought I’d been imagining you were here,” he murmurs.

Michael snorts, unexpectedly amused. “That’d be one hell of a hallucination.”

“Aye, normally I prefer dreams of tall and beautiful women,” Billy muses.

Michael settles in the chair. “Well, give it time, buddy,” he says. “You’ll be back in the game in no time.”

Billy’s smile turns sad. “Not sure cocaine addict will add to my instant charm.”

“After this week, it’s not going to be a problem,” Michael says without missing a beat.

This time, Billy’s smile fades altogether. He swallows, his eyes turning downward. “It’s all going to be different after this,” he says softly, his voice haunted. “I’ve gone and buggered everything up.” He laughs hoarsely. “You’d think that getting deported would be the worst I could do to myself, but I’ve managed to outdo myself in spectacular fashion.”

The self-loathing is uncomfortable to hear, and Michael shifts guiltily in his seat. “Billy--”

Billy shakes his head, looking up again. “I don’t deserve your pity, Michael,” he says. He laughs. “God help me, I don’t deserve anything but to rot in this horrid room--”

Michael wants to scream and rail -- at the universe, at Billy, at this whole damned mission -- but now’s not the time for that. Instead, he curls his toes tight inside his shoes and sits forward. “Billy,” he says again, with more force this time. “What we do -- there is no rulebook,” he says. “There is no clear cut right or wrong. All the lines are blurry, and everything is in shades of gray.”

Billy holds his gaze. “You never would have let this happen to yourself,” he says. “And neither would Casey or Rick.”

Michael holds back his emotions and doesn’t waver as he commands Billy’s attention. “We don’t know that,” he says. “But what I do know is that none of us could have held this cover better than you. You made this mission. You saved countless lives. You did what you had to do.”

Finally, Billy tears his gaze away with a shuddering gasp. “You make it sound so noble,” he says. He takes a breath and lets it out. “Not like this.”

“Yeah, well,” Michael says. “I thought you gave up your James Bond delusions when you got to America.”

Billy flashes him the ghost of a smile. “You can take the spy out of MI6--”

“But you can’t take MI6 out of the spy,” Michael finishes. He sighs. “You up for some food?”

Billy chuckles. “I’d rather tear out my intestines and eat them, in all honesty.”

“Well, I was thinking of something less human,” Michael says. 

Billy makes a face. 

“Toast again?”

Billy closes his eyes and whimpers.

Michael sighs, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “Toast again.”

-o-

Michael doesn’t make the mistake of ordering much, but Billy doesn’t even do much with the dry toast and water. Michael wants to say something, but Billy’s making such an effort to sit up and talk to him that Michael doesn’t have the heart to push it. Especially since it’s clearly work.

Billy’s face is hollowed out and his eyes are too glassy. When he speaks, his accent is thicker and his wit is muted.

But God help them both, Billy tries. He makes stupid jokes and offhand quips. He does everything he can to make the night enjoyable.

Which is why it’s the hardest night yet. Sitting there, trying not to watch as Billy gives everything he has to simply _talk_ \-- it’s nothing short of torture. By nine that evening, Billy is dozing, mouth open and head propped up on the pillows. He’d been telling a story and then he’d just stopped.

Michael chews his lip and contemplates rousing Billy to get him in a more comfortable position. The TV is still on, which provides some background noise at least, but nothing can distract Michael from the glaring fact that Billy’s not doing well.

Sure, on some level, this has been the best night yet. In a lot of ways, considering the horror stories Michael’s read about, this is the best case scenario.

Yet, the entire thing is just _wrong._ Billy’s too tired; Billy’s too weak. Billy can barely keep himself awake, much less keep his guises in place. This is what withdrawal does; it is the body’s way of coping with what it isn’t getting. It strips the body of its defenses, throwing more and more at the desperate, insatiable need. The body will deconstruct itself, and Michael likes to think that when it’s over, Billy will be Billy. 

But Michael has to face the fact that that might not be true. He’ll be Billy, broken into a thousand pieces. Billy, in need of being put back together. Billy, who may never be whole again.

This is Billy. Without the guises, without the self-defense mechanisms. This is Billy, at his core. At his most vulnerable.

And Michael doesn’t even recognize him. His teammate, his colleague, his best _damn friend_ \-- and he’s like a stranger.

Michael is doing this for Billy, but now he’s not even sure there’ll be anything left of Billy when this is over.

Mostly, Michael’s just not sure of anything except for the fact that this is his fault. If he can’t fix Billy, then Michael will never put a man in the field again. This won’t just end Billy’s career, it’ll end Michael’s too.

That realization is startling, and it makes Michael want to run. He wants to extricate himself as his survival instincts kick in.

He knows there’s no point, though. Because Michael doesn’t quit. He’s going to see this through.

Even if the worst should come to pass.

-o-

That night, Michael sleeps in the chair, legs up on the table with the TV on mute in the background. Calling it sleep is probably generous, but there seem to be prolonged periods of semi-consciousness, so Michael will take what he can get. Besides, he prefers the imagined dreams induced by infomercials rather than the endless circles his brain’s been working the last few months with this case.

Still, when morning comes, he’s ready to go. He feels restless as he gets ready, and he aches to go for a jog. He glances at Billy, still passed out where he dozed off the night before, and thinks he could risk it. Billy might not even notice the difference.

It’s appealing. It’s really appealing. Michael is good with routine, and he’s even pretty good with monotony, but sitting in Billy’s room is downright suffocating. It’s been almost four days -- and with the months of playing backup stacking up before that, Michael is at risk for a little psychological malaise all his own.

He looks at Billy again, though, and he can’t do it. The last time he let Billy out of his sight for any extended period of time, he got addicted to cocaine. Michael’s a control freak under the best of circumstances. When things like this happen, he’s in full-on God complex mode until it gets better.

It has to get better. This is the fourth day. Withdrawal will vary, but Michael is counting on a week. That means they’re halfway through this.

Almost there, Michael tells himself.

For what it’s worth, he almost believes himself.

-o-

Michael makes his morning phone calls in the hallway, and even ventures down to the lobby for a cup of coffee and a newspaper. The caffeine does him wonders, and when he gets back to Billy’s room, he finds the Scot still asleep.

The small trip down to the lobby has revitalized him a bit, and Michael settles down and starts in on the paper with a gusto, even if his Spanish isn’t that great. It’s something new; it’s something different. It’s a sign that life is still going on, and that they still have a chance to rejoin the rest of the world.

By the time Billy wakes up in the mid-morning, Michael is feeling downright chipper. At least, comparatively. At this point he’ll settle for not unendingly depressed.

Billy’s groggy when he wakes up, and when he sits up, he seems disoriented. Michael has a banana and bottle of water waiting, and the Scot takes a few lackluster bites before tapering off, looking more than a little nauseous.

“Come on,” Michael cajoles, getting to his feet and opening the drawer where he’s packed Billy’s clothes. “Let’s get you a shower.”

Billy tries to focus his eyes, shaking his head slightly. “I’m not sure I’m feeling so well--”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael says, picking a fresh pair of boxers and a t-shirt. “Which is probably why you need to get up and take a shower. Despite the fact that you live like a slob most of the time, a little cleanliness goes a long way.”

Billy gives him a pained look. “I’m not trying to be difficult--”

Michael sighs. “I know,” he says. He walks back to the bed and throws back Billy’s sheet. “And I’m not trying to be mean. You need to do this. I need you to do this. Have you smelled yourself?”

The joke is small, but it elicits a smile from Billy. It also gains his acquiescence.

“All right,” Billy murmurs, getting up slowly. He wobbles as he gets to his feet, and Michael finds himself hovering as the Scotsman tries to keep himself steady. Even then, Billy’s posture is strained, his back curved as he seems to guard his stomach. He audibly swallows and takes a railing breath. Even with effort, he can’t quite pull himself entirely upright, but he starts a shuffle step toward the bathroom.

Michael follows, turning on the light and neatly stacking Billy’s fresh clothes on the vanity. He puts one of the cleaner towels close to the shower and steps out of the way. 

At the door, Billy almost staggers to a stop, leaning heavily against the doorframe. He meets Michael’s eyes briefly with the faintest hint of a smile. “I appreciate the assistance,” he says. “But I think I’ve got it from here.”

“Yeah, of course,” Michael says with an awkward shrug. He gestures to the room. “I’ll be right out here if you need anything.”

The look on Billy’s face is almost a smirk. “If I can’t handle a shower, then things are worse than we fear.”

Michael chuckles. “Halfway there, buddy,” he says. 

“Indeed,” Billy repeats, as if he’s trying to believe it. “Halfway there.”

-o-

Michael loiters by the door while Billy turns the water on. He waits until the water flow changes, a clear sign that Billy is in fact inside. For a few more moments, Michael listens, taking solace in the steady thrumming. He’s still standing there several minutes later when the water finally turns off and Michael hears the shower curtain being pulled away.

It wasn’t a long shower -- it’s questionable just how much cleaning Billy actually got done -- but it was a shower. 

Satisfied, Michael heads back to his chair. His coffee is cold, but he drinks it anyway, flipping over to another page of the paper and settling in his seat.

Maybe today would be okay. Maybe when Martinez texted for an update, Michael wouldn’t have to lie too much. Maybe when he called Langley to say how things were going, he could almost tell most of the truth.

Maybe.

But then there was a yelp and a clatter from the bathroom, and the whole damn thing fell apart.

-o-

He’s to the bathroom in two seconds flat, and his gun is in his hand out of instinct. The second he opens the door, though, he realizes there’s no external threat.

There’s just Billy.

And one hell of a mess.

The mirror is shattered, pieces scattered all over the counter and spilling onto the floor. The fluorescent lights catch the pieces, reflecting brilliantly, momentarily distracting Michael from the actual problem.

Billy.

The Scot is on the floor, pressed against the edge of the tub. His hair is still damp but he’s got on the shirt and boxers Michael laid out. That’s the good news.

The bad news--

Hell, Michael doesn’t even know where to begin.

There are streaks of red on the floor, and Billy’s legs are scratched up by the shards of glass. It doesn’t help that he’s still kicking and flailing, fighting against some unseen force with all his might. Though Billy’s weak, the thrashing brings his tender skin against the glass, painting even more red across the tile floor.

And that’s not even the worst of it. Billy’s clawing at his skin. The bandages were gone yesterday, but now Billy’s fingers grate along the scabs, raking away fresh, wet skin in the process. The fresh gouges spill blood, mingling with the droplets from the recent shower. It’s a macabre, disturbing image.

Then there’s the keening.

It’s almost animalistic, guttural and frantic. It’s a whine and a growl all at once, and as Billy’s thrashes again, the sound pitches into an all out yowl. Billy’s face is contorted in pain -- physical, mental, emotional agony.

For a moment, Michael can only stand there.

Then, Billy looks up and his eyes lock with Michael’s. They’re wild, and it’s clear that Billy’s not quite all there, but the intensity of it...

The need and the desperation.

“Make it stop,” Billy says, all but begging now. “Make it stop, make it stop, _make it stop!_ ”

The words hitch upward into a hysterical scream. Billy screws his eyes shut and effectively tries to rip through his shirt to clawing at his chest.

“They’re all over me,” Billy sobs. “Make it stop.”

There are fresh blood tracks on Billy’s neck now, and Michael’s heart lurches. Billy’s trying to rip his skin off, and at this point, he’s being pretty successful. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” Billy groans. “Make it stop!”

This time, Michael heeds the plea. He rushes forward, his shoes crunching the shards beneath his feet. There’s no clean spot on the floor, but Billy’s frantic enough that Michael goes to his knees anyway, reaching out and grabbing Billy by the arms.

At the touch, Billy squeals, squirming desperately. He lashes out, long limbs flailing and Michael is almost decked with a bloody wrist.

Still, Michael’s the one in control here, and he reminds himself of that as he grasps Billy’s flailing wrists and folds them toward his chest. The Scot fights him hard, bucking his body against the constraining touch, and Michael falls onto his bottom, feeling the glass poke through the fabric, but he doesn’t let go.

“Damn it, Billy,” he growls. “I’m trying to help you.”

He doesn’t think Billy can hear him, but Billy’s kicking stops and his head turns up. His eyes are bloodshot and bright, but they lock onto Michael’s with something like hope.

“Michael?”

Michael lets out a breath. “Yeah, buddy.”

Billy’s face scrunches up again. “Michael, thank God.”

Michael feels himself relax, letting his grip loosen. “I could say the same.”

Billy’s countenance wavers. He shakes his head. “It hurts,” he says, biting back a sob. “I don’t want it to hurt.”

“I know,” Michael soothes. “You just have to get through it, though--”

Billy nods, wetting his lips. “I know,” he says. “I just need a hit.”

Michael’s stomach flips, and his arms go cold.

Swallowing convulsively, fresh tears leak from Billy’s eyes. “Just one hit, Michael,” he says. “Just to get through the worst of this. They’re all over me now, and they can go away. It can be okay. I know it can be. Just a little bit. One last time. Please, Michael. _Please._ ”

Michael’s numb. The request is so simple and so plaintive -- and so wrong. Billy’s the one who locked himself in a room to detox; Billy’s the one who wanted to do this on his own.

And now he’s begging for drugs.

A hit.

Trying to bargain for it.

Michael’s stomach turns.

“No one has to know,” Billy says, as if it’s entirely reasonable. “The last time. The _last_ time.”

Empty promises. Empty everything.  
 _  
This_ is what Billy has been reduced to.

Michael’s known for four days that Billy’s a cocaine addict, but he hasn’t known it _like this._

Billy spasms, his body tensing as his breathing quickens. “I can’t do this,” he says, his voice breaking. “I need a hit because I can’t do this anymore. _Please._ ”

Michael shakes his head. “Billy, you know we can’t--”

“We can,” Billy insists. “We can do anything. Off the books. You can do that. We can do that.”

“Billy, we _can’t--_ ”

Billy’s breath catches on a sob, and he spasms again. “I’m going to die without it,” he says. “Is that what you want? You want me to die?”

Michael tries to deny it, but Billy’s not listening. He’s fighting against him, pushing up against Michael’s touch, trying to pull his arms free. His entire body twists, and Michael almost loses his balance. Billy is thrashing again, and Michael has to reposition his footing, tightening his grip to bruising as he bears down to keep Billy immobile on the floor.

Billy still flails, squirming uselessly until his energy breaks and he just cries.

The sobs are gulping and heavy, but when the tension drains from Billy’s offensive posture, Michael still doesn’t let go. He can’t let go. He holds Billy, pressed against the glass, immobile and sobbing, because this is all he _can_ do.

This is all that’s left.

Suddenly halfway there isn’t nearly close enough.

-o-

Normally, Michael has a keen, innate sense of time. But that’s gone now -- along with just about everything else. It could be minutes -- it could be hours -- before Billy’s wretched cries taper off and he’s just shaking and sniveling in Michael’s grasp.

Billy’s not quite limp, but he is pliant when Michael finally hoists him to his feet, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Grimacing, Michael hastily clears away most of the bigger chunks of glass as he guides Billy, step by step, into the main room.

The Scot says nothing as Michael deposits him on the bed, sitting him upright. He is almost afraid to let go of Billy at all, but he has no choice in order to retrieve the first aid kit.

Billy hasn’t moved when he gets back, and the other man doesn’t seem to be even aware of what’s happening when Michael opens it up and settles himself down in front of him. He has to fish around in his own toiletries to find a pair of tweezers, which he uses to start plucking the bits of glass he finds embedded into Billy’s skin.

It’s messy work. Billy nearly scratched the skin on his arms clean off, and he’d been oblivious to the glass. It takes at least an hour to pluck and clean the debris from Billy’s arms and hands and longer still to slather the area with antiseptics and wrap it with gauze.

Through it all, Billy is unflinching. His eyes are open, but dull and far off, and it’s creepy -- and it’s also a relief. He moves cautiously to Billy’s legs, finding more cuts and bits of glass, and he has to spend more time still on the soles of Billy’s feet. He considers whether or not he needs to check Billy’s backside -- it’d probably pay to be safe -- but Michael thinks they’ve both suffered enough indignities for one day.

He just can’t do it.

Sitting back, he looks at Billy, and he can’t do it.

He can’t do any of this. He doesn’t know how to do this. Michael’s used to being in control, to making something work, but this--

This is beyond him.

He’s never doubted his ability to get his team through a mission.

He does now, though.

Sitting back on his heels, looking at Billy’s gaunt form, Michael doubts everything.

The sense of helplessness is paralyzing, and Michael feels the sudden need to leave mount once again. This is wrong, he thinks. It’s not right to see Billy like this. It’s not even Billy. There was a reason Billy tried to hide this from him, and maybe Michael should have respected those wishes.

Of course, Billy probably would have ended up killing himself or buying cocaine.

Billy needs Michael. He’s needed Michael all along, and Michael failed him then. He can’t now.

This is his mission.

His responsibility.

Sighing, he takes Billy by the shoulders and lays him down. “Might as well get some sleep now,” he says, even as Billy’s eyes look blankly past him and fine tremors shake his body. “It looks like we’re going to be here for awhile.”

-o-

It doesn’t get better.

Billy sleeps intermittently, but he’s pulled from unconsciousness violently. Sometimes he wakes retching, and Michael has to scramble to bring the trash can to his mouth. Other times, he wakes screaming, and Michael winces while he shushes Billy frantically, looking uneasily at the thin motel room walls.

Still other times, Billy wakes up ranting and raving, talking about ants crawling on his skin or spiders in his mouth. He talks about poison in his drink and people lurking outside the door. Michael gives up with logic, and promises Billy he’ll take care of it until the Scotsman settles down.

And there are even times when Billy wakes up sobbing, broken, desperate sobs, so thick and fast that he can hardly breathe. Michael can do nothing but hold him, pressing Billy’s face into his shoulder and running a hand through his hair, promising it’ll be over soon, it’ll be alright.

Michael’s lied about many things in his life.

He’s worried that’s the biggest lie yet.


	4. Chapter 4

At this point, everything’s a challenge. Billy alternates between total compliancy and outright resistance. He looks at Michael with distrust when he’s conscious enough to eat, and when he’s not--

Well, that’s even worse. Billy’s guises are nothing but a memory now, and the raw need in his eyes now is unlike anything Michael has seen there before. It’s startling and it’s terrifying, and as much as it makes Michael want to get the hell out, it anchors him all the same.

He has to get Billy through this.

For all their sakes.

-o-

By evening, Billy has barely eaten anything, and he lays whimpering on the bed. Michael can’t even afford to make calls, so he texts Fay and tells her that all is well; he’ll call when he can.

Rick texts at his usual time, asking how things are. Michael replies with a smiley face because that’s as much of a lie as he can stomach.

Billy wakes up crying. When Michael tries to comfort him, he thrashes and fights before asking for a fix. The minutes are hours, and the seconds weigh heavily with every beat of his heart.

It has to get better.

Because Michael’s scared to think how it could be worse.

-o-

That night, Michael hardly sleeps. He lays in the dimness, watching Billy breathe. Sometimes, when Billy’s asleep, he can almost fool himself into remembering how it used to be. He can still remember the night before Billy went undercover. They’d all been together, then. They’d had a good meal and good beer; they’d laughed and joked.

“You won’t even miss me,” Billy had protested.

“Come on,” Michael cajoled. “You won’t even miss us. I mean, drug dealers live the high life. Money and freedom. You’re not going to want to come home.”

“It’s a job, not a holiday,” Billy objected.

“Just wait until you come back,” Michael joked. “Then we’ll see how you feel.”

He hadn’t known then. None of them had. Michael hadn’t even had a clue.

He should have. He should have seen this coming. He should have stopped this.

The weight in his gut is nauseating and wrenching, almost unlike anything he’s felt before. Just almost, though. He felt it the day the warehouse went up in flames with Carson Simms still inside. He felt it the day he got home from work and Fay’s things were gone. He felt it when Martinez was bleeding out in South America and Michael had no choice but to run.

Except there’s no running now. There’s no loneliness. There’s no fire.

There’s just him and Billy, locked in a motel room, hoping for the best.

And starting to fear the worst.

-o-

Michael doesn’t just lose track of time; it actually has no meaning. Day turns into night; night passes to morning. Billy sleeps and wakes at odd intervals, and Michael does what he can. Billy doesn’t try to joke with him anymore. Billy doesn’t try to do anything. When he’s awake, he’s listless, and Michael has to actively make Billy eat and drink, and even then it’s mostly a lost cause. 

In his sleep, Billy whimpers. He cries out and thrashes, sometimes curling up so small and clutching his pillow like it’s the only thing that can save him in the world. He mumbles and begs, and Michael stops listening to the words, moving a damp washcloth over Billy’s head, as if it is doing any good at all.

He starts to neglect his duties. The rest of his responsibilities stop making sense, and when he gets a call from Fay, he’s almost surprised.

“Hey,” she says, sounding concerned.

“Hey yourself,” Michael replies, too tired to think of anything else to say.

“You didn’t call,” she tells him.

Michael’s knee-jerk reaction is to remind her that they aren’t married anymore, but then he remembers he’s technically still on the clock. “Yeah,” he says, looking at his clock. He closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Got a little busy down here.”

“Doing what?” she asks. “I’ve been in contact with the local authorities. You stopped checking in with them.”

Michael sighs, getting to his feet and moving away from the bed. He’s not sure if Billy’s awake or asleep; he’s not sure it matters. Still, privacy is suddenly appealing. “It’s all under control, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” she says. “But...”

“But nothing,” Michael cuts her off, a little abrupt. “You’re always telling me about how I need to let go.”

“Sure, and you’re always telling me how you can’t,” she says.

She has a point there. Michael works his jaw. “Well, maybe I’m learning.”

There’s a pause, and Michael knows he’s doing a pretty bad job of convincing her otherwise. “Michael, is there something I need to know?”

Michael’s made it five days. He’s lied to Martinez; he’s kept Casey at bay. He’s omitted relevant details from all his reports and remote debriefings. 

And it’s exhausting him.

Fay’s offer is tempting. She’s good with this kind of thing, he knows. She knows how to balance sympathy with following the rules. That’s never been Michael’s forte, but Fay’s a natural at it. She might be willing to go off the record with him. At the very least, she’d understand why he was doing it this way, and she might be able to help him.

And it would feel so good to share this burden with _someone._

He turns, glancing back at Billy. The Scotsman is staring at the ceiling. 

Michael squeezes his eyes shut again.

“Michael?” Fay asks again.

Michael grimaces. “Everything is fine,” he says, voice grating almost painfully in his throat. He opens his eyes and finds the last of his desperate resolve. “There’s absolutely nothing you need to worry about.”

The lie gets more outrageous every time he says it. 

But he’s never needed it more than he does now. Not just as a way to deflect Fay’s inquiries; not just to protect Billy’s career.

But for himself.

“Michael,” Fay says again, her voice hinging in that way. She knows better, and she wants to help.

But this isn’t about him. As much as he sort of wishes it was at this point, this still can’t be about Michael. It’s about Billy, and Michael’s responsibility to Billy. Michael can’t take solace for himself at Billy’s expense.

“Everything is fine,” Michael says again, flatly now. “Trust me.”

Her silence is telling, and when she speaks, her voice is tempered. “After everything, you don’t have to lie to me, Michael.”

He laughs, short and bitter. “And I’m not sure you have the right to be offended if I do,” he counters.

She takes a breath and lets it out. “Well, just don’t miss your check-in again,” she says, more professionally now. Michael can still hear traces of disappointment in her voice. “I’m willing to look the other way, but Higgins won’t be for much longer. He’s not afraid to take aggressive measures to figure out if you’re hiding something.”

Michael resists the urge to snort. Fay’s right, but Michael got too many other things on his mind to worry about Higgins. He’s more focused on getting through the next few hours than dealing with his boss.

He can’t neglect it, though. And he’d be stupid to miss the concern in her warning. “Thanks, Fay,” he says.

She sounds annoyed when she speaks. “I know you’re lying about something,” she says. “But I also know that whether I like it or not, you usually lie about the important things. I just hope you have your priorities in order on this one.”

Michael looks over to Billy. His eyes have closed and he’s sleeping, limp and slack-jawed on the bed. “Me, too.”

-o-

Michael thinks he may be going insane.

The room is suffocating; the tension is unbearable. He listens to the sound of Billy breathing, and tries to let that be enough.

When it’s not, he falls back to routines. Automatic and practiced. He checks his phone; he replies to emails. He checks Billy’s temperature and then walks the length of the room three times before settling back down. Every hour he makes Billy drink. Then, after three hours, he decides it’s time to take Billy to the bathroom.

It’s awkward and probably humiliating, but they’re so far in this thing that Michael doesn’t let himself stop.

He throws back the sheets, patting Billy on the arm. “Come on, buddy,” he cajoles tiredly. “Bathroom break.”

Billy’s brow furrows and his eyes blink. Michael pulls him into a seated position and has the Scot’s legs over the side of the bed before Billy can even manage to make his mouth work.

“Wha?” he asks.

“Bathroom,” Michael repeats, positioning himself to pull Billy to his feet.

Billy sways and Michael steadies him, taking steps forward with Billy in tow.

“That’s it,” Michael coaches. “Almost there.”

Billy keeps pace, but he shakes his head. “Wait, where are we going?” 

His accent is thick and the words are hard to distinguish.

“Bathroom,” Michael repeats again, with as much patience as he can muster.

Billy stiffens. “Wait,” he says, shaking his head. “Where are we?”

“The motel room,” Michael says, flicking the bathroom light on. It’s still a mess. He’s cleaned up the glass as best he can, but Michael is going to have to pay cash to avoid getting this put on the CIA’s tab. He doesn’t need to give Higgins any additional reasons to look into their time here.

Billy balks. “I don’t remember a motel room,” he says, voice tinged with distrust.

Michael mostly ignores him, turning him toward the toilet. “Well, it’ll come back to you.”

Billy’s been difficult and argumentative, but he’s been overwhelmingly compliant, so when Billy’s eyes flash and his posture goes rigid, Michael’s surprised. “You’ve done something to me,” he says in accusation. He’s standing just out of Michael’s grip, stance defiant even while he shakes.

“Billy, don’t be stupid,” Michael says, reaching out to guide Billy toward the seat.

Billy pulls away sharply. “I can’t trust you,” he hisses.

Michael closes his mouth into a flat line. “Buddy, I’ve been here five days.”

Billy’s face screws up. “Five days? You’ve kept me in here for five days?”

“You _asked_ me to,” Michael explains with exasperation.

“I asked you to keep me caged up like an animal?” Billy asks, eyes narrowing.

“You asked me to help you,” Michael huffs. He reaches out. “So _sit down--_ ”

This time, Billy recoils more sharply. “Don’t touch me--”

Michael sighs. “Billy, I don’t have the energy for this,” he says, and this time he clamps down on Billy’s wrist without hesitation. “So sit the hell down and--”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. There’s no time to. Because Billy’s entire body springs, an inhuman snarl from his lips. His movements are uncoordinated, but the long limbs still pack a wallop, and when one of them hits Michael across the cheek, he sees stars.

Billy’s still fighting, fists hitting indiscriminately, and when Michael swallows blood, he loses it.

He’s given up a lot to sit in this room with Billy. He’s done things no friend should ever have to do. He’s gone above and beyond the call of duty. He’s tired and he’s restless and Billy _hit him--_

The rest is instinct.

He’s no Casey Malick, but Michael knows how to fight. He can hold his own in most circumstances, and in this, his response is basically textbook.

He ducks, letting Billy’s momentum throw him off balance. When the Scot reels, Michael wraps his fingers into a fist, pulls back and throws the punch.

Under other conditions, Billy would have seen it coming.

With things as they are, though, Billy catches the punch square across the nose. 

Just that fast, Billy crumples. His legs give out and he crashes to the floor, hitting the tile not far from the toilet. He scrambles, pulling back until he hits the edge of the bathtub, where he huddles down and draws his knees to his chest, glancing up at Michael mournfully.

The fight drains from Michael. Because curled up on the floor, Billy looks like a shadow of himself. He’s not field worthy; he’s in no position to fight. The blood leaking from his nose is minor -- there’s no significant injury -- but Billy’s been through enough.

He’s coming off a cocaine addiction, after all. An addiction that Michael didn’t see earlier and let happen on his watch.

He did this to Billy. Not just the blood from his nose, but _everything._

Billy needs him now, more than ever, and Michael decked him.

As if he didn’t feel guilty enough.

Sighing, Michael kneels down. “Hey,” he says.

Billy whimpers, ducking his head away.

Michael reaches out gently. “Hey,” he tries again, settling a hand on Billy’s trembling shoulder. “Come on.”

Billy shudders.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says, because he wants Billy to understand. And he is sorry. He’s sorry about everything.

Michael is just _so sorry._

Billy looks at him furtively, brow dark with obvious disdain. When Michael unfurls him, Billy doesn’t fight him, but the lack of trust in his eyes is telling enough.

Somehow Michael knows he’ll never be sorry enough.

-o-

This is the new reality. Billy’s weakness has given way to outright paranoia, and he recoils like a cornered rabbit every time he’s conscious. It’s increasingly less clear to Michael whether the man recognizes him or not, and Michael begins to crave for the times when Billy’s unconscious.

Billy’s nose swells but the bleeding stops, but the other man won’t let him close enough to clean up most of the blood from his face. It’s a battle that’s not really worth fighting -- not when getting Billy to eat and drink at all takes precedence -- but every time he looks at Billy, the smeared blood in his stubble is pretty hard to take.

Which is funny. Michael’s been locked with Billy in a motel room for the better part of a week, tending to his every and increasing need. He’s had to hold him up, haul him to the bathroom and feed him like a baby. And a little blood is what bothers him most.

It’s his fist, though. He can still feel Billy’s nose beneath his skin, and somehow blaming himself for a jarred nose is easier than accepting the rest.

The rest...

Billy is practically wasting away in front of Michael’s eyes. He’s even thinner, and his face is gaunt and pale. He’s shaky with dark smudges beneath his eyes. He looks sickly -- and Michael can’t remember the last time the other man cracked a smile. This isn’t Billy anymore.

He’s been clinging to the hope that when this is over, he’ll get his friend back. That when the drugs are finished with Billy, when the chemicals have ravaged his body and been starved away, that Billy will reemerge, tried but true.

It feels like a stupid, blind hope now. Michael is practically wiping Billy’s ass; he doesn’t know how to come back from this. Michael has planned countless missions; he’s made so many questionable choices. He’s walked into hell and walked right back out again. But this...

Billy might survive this.

And if he doesn’t, Michael’s not sure he will either.

-o-

After several mercifully quiet hours, Michael succumbs to the inevitable and rouses Billy to make him drink. He’s careful about it; not silent but not too loud, and he addresses Billy directly as he approached. “Okay, buddy,” he coaxes, unscrewing the cap to a bottle of water. “A few drinks now.”

Billy rouses, his eyes blinking wide and terrified. They lock on Michael, and he smiles.

“Dehydration would screw us both over,” Michael says with a shrug as he holds up the water. “You think you can do it?”

He asks the question mostly to be polite, and because it makes him feel better to at least try to include Billy on some of these decisions. Billy’s a smart man and a capable operative. Treating him like a needy toddler is hell on both of them.

That doesn’t mean it’s not necessary. 

He approaches easily, moving the bottle toward Billy’s mouth. “There we go,” he says as he starts to tip it back.

Billy’s eyes narrow and his brow furrows. Then, he shakes his head. “What are you trying to do to me?” he hisses.

“It’s a drink,” Michael says. “Remember? We want to avoid the hospital?”

“Who said anything about a hospital?” Billy asks, inching backward and pressing into his pillow. “Is that a threat?”

Michael sighs, grinding his teeth together. “No,” he says. “I’m trying to help you.”

Billy jerks his head to the side. “Is it poison?” he asks. “Or are you just trying to drown me?”

Michael can’t help it at that point, and he rolls his eyes. “If I wanted you dead, I would have smothered you with a pillow two days ago.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and Michael knows it. But he’s played nice for so long and his patience is thin and he’s kept himself locked in a room with a cocaine addict and the need to be sarcastic is about as basic to him as breathing.

Still, it’s not exactly unexpected when Billy’s eyes flash and he pulls back. He manages to get on his elbows, starting to kick the covers away as he seems to scramble to get off the bed. “Get away from me,” he says, voice starting to hitch.

“Billy,” Michael says. “Come on--”

“No,” Billy replies, more frantic now. His eyes dart around, as if he doesn’t quite remember where he is. “What are you doing to me?”

“Billy,” Michael says. “We’re in your motel room. You finished the mission. Remember?”

The confusion on Billy’s face is apparent -- he doesn’t remember.

Michael holds back a curse.

Billy shakes his head. “You’re lying,” he says. “I don’t know why but you’re lying.”

“I have no reason to lie--”

“And I have no reason to believe you!” Billy exclaims. He looks down at his arms and his breathing quickens. “What did you do to me?” He swallows, blinking rapidly. “Everything is wrong. Did you drug me?”

The question is delusional, but it cuts to the heart of this. Michael never put the needle in Billy’s arm, but at this point, it feels like he did. He blames himself, and Billy’s never admitted it, but he’d be within his rights to place some of the blame on Michael, too.

That’s not what he’s about to say, though. “Look, you’ve been through some bad things,” Michael explains vaguely. “But you’re going to be okay. We just need to drink a little bit, and then--”

Billy flails, though, lashing out and knocking the bottle of water from Michael’s hand. Michael yelps, trying to catch it and he’s picked it up off the bed when Billy flings himself forward again.

The contact isn’t nearly as strong as it should be, but it’s still jarring. Michael curses, trying to keep the water from spilling as he holds his balance. 

“Billy,” he says, grunting as he reaches out and grabs the other man by the arms. “ _Stop._ ”

It takes all his self control not to hit the other man, but the wild look on Billy’s face is a compelling reason to stop. Billy doesn’t know what he’s doing. Hell, with any luck, Billy won’t remember any of this. Michael is the one in control here. He has to be the responsible one.

Then, Billy opens his mouth and screams. 

The sound is inarticulate and desperate, like the howl of a trapped animal. Michael tenses in automatic panic, bearing down his grip and pushing Billy back to the bed. “Shut up,” he hisses. “Shut _up._ ”

Billy screams again, kicking his legs and squirming. 

Michael winces, too aware of the thin walls. “Billy, _please,_ ” he says, willing the other man to look at him, to understand, to _stop…_

“Help me!” Billy wails. And he opens his mouth again. “Help--”

Michael has no choice. He reaches down, placing a firm hand over Billy’s mouth. The Scot reacts immediately, thrashing with new intensity, and Michael has to put all his weight down to keep Billy from bucking him off. Even then, Billy’s breath is hot and frantic against his hand, and Michael feels Billy’s teeth--

He can’t get much more leverage, but he has to stop this. Billy’s going to draw attention to them, and while Billy may think that’s what he wants, Billy’s not in any position to make decisions. Now, that’s Michael’s authority now, and he has to respect Billy’s wishes. 

Billy made a choice to do this on his own.

Michael will respect that.

At almost any cost.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, shifting his hand so his thumb and forefinger were free to pinch Billy’s nose. 

The shift is immediate. Billy’s attention shifts, and his eyes widen with absolute terror. His entire body goes rigid, hands pressing at Michael more fervently. But he’s weak and he’s sick, and Michael has the leverage and it’s not long until the fight slackens and Billy’s eyes start to go dim.

Then Michael takes his hand away.

Beneath him, Billy takes a ragged breath, and several moments pass while Billy simply breathes. Michael eases his grip but doesn’t change his position until Billy’s eyes clear enough to look at him again.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says. “But this is what you would want me to do. You’re going to have to trust me.”

There’s no trust in Billy’s eyes, though. Beneath the pain and the fever is doubt and confusion, all grounded in abject misery.

When several more seconds pass with no further attempts to call out, Michael lets go and gets off the bed. Stiffly, he reaches for the bottle. “We just need to drink.”

There is a heartbreaking anger in Billy’s eyes, made worse by the fact that this time Billy doesn’t resist. He lets Michael put the bottle to his lips, and when Michael tips it up, he swallows obediently.

“It’s going to get better,” Michael promises.

Because he’s sure as hell scared to think that it could still get worse.

-o-

That night, Billy is sick again, and Michael spends most of the time cleaning up after him. The Scot whimpers in pain, crying in his sleep until the early hours of the morning. The fever comes on suddenly, leaving Billy incoherent and limp, and when he sweats it off, he moans with an intensity that cuts Michael deep.

When the dawn breaks, Michael looks out the window and tries to remember what day it is. At this point, though, he’s just not sure it matters.

-o-

Michael doesn’t know what time it is until his phone starts buzzing. On the bed, Billy stirs, and Michael hurries to silence it. Billy snuffles in his sleep -- which has been long in coming -- and Michael glances down at his phone skeptically.

He can’t avoid these tasks. He knows that, and Fay’s call yesterday only puts more weight on it.

Still, he looks at Billy. Gently, he picks up the freshest washcloth he has nearby -- it’s still wet enough to count -- and he splays it across Billy’s forehead. His fever isn’t dangerously high, but the motion is still comforting, and it’s not long before the Scot has settled back to sleep -- and Michael has no desire to disrupt it. The night was long; this respite is the first quiet they’ve had in hours.

He’s left the room before to run errands back to his room or to make calls in the hallways. He’s even made a trip or two to the lobby, and everything has been fine. Granted, things hadn’t been as bad as they are now, but at this point, there’s not much more Billy can do.

Besides, it’s not like Michael’s going to be gone long. A few minutes, and he’ll be close enough to know if Billy leaves.

Right now, Billy needs sleep. And Michael needs to make these phone calls.

More than that, Michael needs some space.

Getting up, he pads quietly to the door. He lingers with his hand on the knob and looks back.

This is best for both of them.

With that, he ducks into the hallway.

-o-

It turns out, texting all his contacts for a day has left things in a state of marginal disrepair. He finds his local contact flush with concerns and questions, and he even has to field a few calls from the military commander just to tie up the loose ends. After arguing on the phone with a tech from Langley about why certain criminals really should be extradited for about twenty minutes, Michael is exhausted.

And strangely invigorated. 

Being locked in a motel room has made him forget that he actually does like his job, even the mundane aspects. He never thought he’d be so grateful to cut through red tape.

Mostly, he’s just relieved for some snippet of real life. It reminds him what started all this -- and what he has to go back to.

Mostly, it’s a distraction, and after six days -- how the hell has it been six days? -- Michael is more than ready for a distraction.

Since the entire mission seems to be falling apart at the seams, Michael decides to take his time with the calls, and he starts to pace up and down the corridor as he patiently explains to an attache at the State Department why they are still better off keeping this entire thing on the down low. Sure, they could use some good publicity, but they still might be able to exploit the network if there’s some mystery surrounding where the captured members are.

Besides, the less attention they draw to this fiasco, the better it is for Billy. The last thing any of them need is to be lauded as heroes internally -- because Billy normally likes to tell stories, but Michael has a feeling none of them will be talking big about this one -- not for a long time.

When he runs out of hallway, Michael starts on the stairs, and when he ends up in the lobby drinking fresh coffee, it seems entirely reasonable. After he hangs up the phone, he pours himself another cup and sits on the couch and just _breathes._

The air is fresher; the world is brighter. There are people; life is going on. It’s such a stark contrast to Billy’s drawn motel room that it’s almost startling. Michael had known it was bad, but he hadn’t fully grasped the toll it was starting to take on him. If he was going to be at his best for Billy, he needed to spend a little more time on himself.

He nurses a third cup of coffee, letting as much of the tension fall away as he can. This doesn’t change things, but it puts it all in perspective. Things with Billy are bad, but they’re going to get better. The world is waiting -- for both of them. Michael has got Billy this far -- they just have to make it a little longer. Another day.

They can manage that.

In the daylight, Michael is more sure of that than ever.

He calls Martinez and passes off a text to Casey, reminding them to be ready to go in another two days. There’s no reply from Casey, but Rick sends back a grateful text, punctuated by a smiley face.  
 _  
Can’t wait. How’s Billy?  
_  
Michael smiles as he sends a reply. _Getting there.  
_  
And for the first time all week, it doesn’t feel like a lie.

-o-

It’s probably a bit of overkill, but Michael takes the fourth cup to go. Really, he’s reluctant to leave because breathing fresh air and seeing other people is so damn refreshing. He even manages _not_ to profile every person in and out of the door for the 15 minute respite.

Even so, Michael’s a man of discipline, and he knows he’s been away long enough. Billy’s probably still sleeping, but Michael wants to make sure to get back in time for a breakfast of crackers and water, which he picks up from the vending machine for a little variety.

He takes the stairs two at a time, walking briskly down the hall to Billy’s room. He pulls out his key and swipes it, taking a quick glance down the hall before going inside.

Easing in, he takes pains to be quiet. When he sees the bed is empty with the sheets thrown back, he puts down the water and crackers. “Hey, sleepyhead,” Michael calls to the bathroom. “You finally awake?”

There’s no answer.

It’s not exactly unexpected. Although Michael feels recharged, Billy’s still in severe cocaine withdrawal, so there’s no reason for him to be chipper.

With his fourth cup of coffee in hand, Michael is ready to deal with that.

“Billy,” he says again, moving back to the closed bathroom door. “If you hurry out, I’ll let you pick what we watch on TV.”

He waits a moment for a reply, but there’s nothing. But not just no verbal reply -- literally _nothing._

Not a groan; not even a rustle.

Michael frowns, inching closer. “Billy?” he says again. “Just give me a sign you’re still alive in there?”

When there’s still no reply, Michael’s good humor almost fades entirely.

“Billy,” Michael says, his hand on the knob. “I’m going to come in...”

He barely finishes the threat when he turns the knob and opens the door. The light is on, and nothing has been touched. The toiletries are still lined up on the counter and the broken mirror is still a glaring mess in front of him. The toilet seat is open; the shower curtain is pulled back with the towels hanging neatly to dry on the rod.

But no Billy.

Frantic, Michael turns back out and looks again at the bed. He crosses the room in two steps, glancing over the side -- nothing.

In vain, he looks under the beds, turning around with his heart thumping in his chest. This isn’t happening; this _can’t_ be happening. 

Desperate, he goes to the window and finds it locked. He looks out and sees the drop -- not deadly but nothing Billy would be in any condition to scale at this point.

But where could he be? Michael wasn’t gone long -- and he was by the main entrance the entire time. Billy’s in no condition to go out; hell, he can barely walk to the bathroom without help. He had still been sleeping.

Michael’s mind goes through all the logical denials but he can’t escape the truth. The fact is, Billy’s his responsibility. Billy’s a drug addict. Billy’s barely lucid.

And now, Billy’s gone.

It’s all Michael’s fault.

-o-

For about thirty seconds, Michael despairs. 

Then, Michael remembers that he’s a spy. More than that, he’s a good spy. The best there is. He’s faced impossible situations and overcome before. He can do it again.

He _will._

Especially with stakes like this. 

First, he quickly assesses the means of Billy’s departure. Their covers are solid at the hotel, and Michael’s gone to great pains to protect their extraction. Plus, with Billy literally not stepping outside since the mission went down, he’s unlikely to have attracted attention. 

However, it is possible that someone has found him -- someone who is unhappy that Billy played a turncoat for five months.

Still, a look around quickly rules that out. The place isn’t exactly clean -- at least not by Michael’s standards -- but nothing is particularly out of order. Billy’s bed is a mess, but the sheets are thrown back, which suggests that Billy pushed them back of his own accord. There’s no sign of a struggle. While Michael doubts Billy could fend off an attacker for long, he knows the Scot would put up a fight -- if only because he’s been fighting Michael on and off for the past day now. Something would be out of order if Billy were taken by force.

More than that, there’s no forced entry. The windows are locked; the door shows no signs of tampering. Picking a hotel room lock is possible, but usually not without leaving some kind of sign on the locking mechanism.

Which means that Billy left by choice.

Choice isn’t quite the word Michael wants to use, not with Billy’s current state. He’s not exactly in control of his faculties. Granted, there’s never a way to predict when Billy will be lucid or not, but he’s been increasingly less coherent over the last few days. Even if he has a vague sense of where he is or why, the need for the drug has become an overpowering force in Billy’s psyche.

There are a few possible reasons for this, then. First, Billy could be confused. He might not know what’s happening. But if that were the case, Michael would expect to see more disarray in the room.

This leads Michael to consider the second option -- that Billy is purposefully trying to flee from Michael. Or whoever he assumes Michael to be. This is possible, Michael concedes, because Billy’s paranoia has skyrocketed in the last 24 hours. He’s been skittish and distrustful, and without a clear grasp on why he’s sick and in pain, his desire to blame the only person close to him makes sense.

This is a viable option, and Michael considers it.

But there’s still a third option: Billy wants a hit.

Michael doesn’t like this option. As painful as the second one is to consider, three is downright terrifying. Billy clearly intended to kick his addiction, and he was trusting Michael to make sure that happened. Over the last few days, Billy had begged and pleaded for a hit with a growing intensity that Michael could barely stomach. 

Biologically speaking, the need for the drug is everything to Billy. It’s become his sole focus in life. And no matter what good intentions Billy had going in, the basic chemical need is overwhelming.

Ultimately, though, the reason isn’t as important as _where._ Because Michael knows Billy left. What he doesn’t know is how to get him back.

And he has to get him back. The last five days have been nothing short of hell, and Michael won’t lose Billy after all that. To death or drugs -- at this point, Michael’s not even sure which is worse.

He just knows he has to avoid both.

At all costs.

-o-

He starts at the bed. As he’s already noted, there is every indication that Billy shoved the sheets off of his own accord. As he moves toward the headboard, he steps in something wet and he looks down to see the water bottle, open and spilled on the floor. There are also some broken crackers and a mangled package, as if Billy tried to ravage them and failed.

So it’s possible Billy woke up, got hungry and found the selection wanting.

There is no other sign of disturbance in the room, and Michael finds Billy’s clothes untouched and his shoes still stowed by the wall where Michael lined them up nearly a week ago. Digging deeper, Michael finds Billy’s cell phone and his wallet intact right where Michael last saw them.

Under normal circumstances, this might indicate that Billy just went down the hall for a breath of fresh air. But given Billy’s current state of mind, Michael doesn’t think it’s a good sign. Billy’s lucidity has been hit and miss, and it’s pretty clear he didn’t plan this jaunt out of the room very well. He doesn’t even have his room key.

Michael’s stomach flips, but he keeps the uncertainty at bay. Being afraid won’t fix the problem, and right now the problem is all Michael should be focused on. With no further clues in the room, Michael opens the door and looks down the hall.

He’s familiar with the hall, and he knows the path to the main staircase and elevator banks well. However, he can rule those out as a possible exit point for Billy. There’s no way Billy used either one without Michael seeing him from his place in the lobby.

Turning the other way, Michael looks down to the far end. There’s a secondary exit there, which lets out into one of the side parking lots. Michael hasn’t gone out that way because he hasn’t had much need, but he scoped it out when he first chose this motel as a home base for the mission.

He moves briskly down the hall, looking for any sign of Billy. He stops in the nook where the ice machine is tucked away, but to no avail. None of the other rooms are open, and the hall is mercifully quiet.

At the door to the stairwell, Michael goes through and looks hopefully at the landing. It’s unfortunately empty. At the top railing, Michael looks down, searching for any sign of movement.

It’s still. Silent.

Frustrated, Michael starts down, moving swiftly until he reaches the bottom. He knows Billy likes to go up when he’s spooked, but up wouldn’t get him anywhere. If Billy’s trying to escape, he’d hit the ground running. 

Still, this is all a crapshoot at this point. Michael is trying to follow a trail that doesn’t exist.

Until it does.

He sees the small cloth the instant he opens the door. It’s white and crumpled, still damp. Curious, Michael kneels down and feels it. It’s standard issue from the motel, but it looks just like the ones Michael has been keeping to cool Billy’s fever.

Like the one he left there before going out for his morning coffee run.

Coincidence -- possibly.

Sure as hell not likely.

Billy left it here, probably unintentionally. If Billy were in his right mind, he never would have left such an obvious clue to follow, but that’s the point. Billy’s not in his right mind. He’s in the throes of withdrawal.

Standing up, Michael holds the washcloth and looks across the parking lot to the surrounding city.

Billy’s a drug addict, and Michael has no idea where he’s going. He just knows if he doesn’t find Billy soon, withdrawal will be the least of his concerns.

-o-

Michael has no trail to follow, but he has years of friendship and finely tuned instincts to guide him. It’s no guarantee, of course, but at this point, he’ll take what he can get.

The main road isn’t far, which is Michael’s first point of exclusion. Billy likes shortcuts, and if he’s feeling threatened or unsure, he’ll stick to the shadows for sure. This is one of the Scot’s most basic self-defense mechanisms -- to hide.

Michael takes the alley instead, keeping himself running parallel to the main road, working steadily toward the left. In his mind, he mentally considers how far Billy might have gone. It hasn’t been that long, and Billy’s not exactly in prime condition, which would work in Michael’s favor.

Then again, Michael could be following the wrong trail entirely and instead of making up ground, he could be losing it by the second.

The alleys look the same, and Michael takes the time to check behind dumpsters. He even starts checking inside a few, but beyond a few rats and a homeless man, he comes up with nothing.

After ten minutes of steady searching, Michael stops, feeling his heart rate quicken. At the main road, he looks up and down, but life is going on as if nothing is unusual. Michael takes a left turn and heads down an adjacent system of side streets, listening for any familiar sound or a flash of Billy’s rundown figure.

Another ten minutes. He checks darkened doorways and parked cars. He looks up and down streets and scans the rooftops. He goes into a few abandoned storefronts, searching for any hint of the Scotsman.

Nothing.

Michael is sweating now, and when he pauses on a corner nearly half a mile from their motel, he’s faced with the sudden, horrifying realization that he may have lost Billy. Which means, he’s lost everything. Billy can’t defend himself like this, and if he doesn’t end up getting killed, he’s going to eventually try to find some drugs. If Billy gets arrested in this pursuit, then all that Michael’s tried to salvage is for nothing.

If Billy actually _gets_ the drugs...

He doesn’t want to think about that.

He has to think he can find Billy. That it’s not too late.

But he needs to find Billy. _Soon._

Hesitating, he gets out his phone. Two calls, and Casey and Rick would be here, no questions asked. Three people could cover a more comprehensive search pattern, and if they started soon enough, the odds of finding Billy before something bad happened would improve immensely.

But then he’d have to tell them the truth. He’d have to tell them about Billy’s cocaine addiction and endure all the necessary consequences. They’d work together to save Billy, but Michael knows everything would change after that.

Cursing under his breath, Michael puts his phone away. Billy’s not in his right mind anymore, but when he made the choice to do this alone, he knew what he was doing. He knew what he wanted. He knew the risks.

Michael has to respect that -- for as long as he possibly can.

“Come on, Billy,” he murmurs to the bustling street. “Help me help you.”

In the din, there is no reply and Michael is left standing alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Michael essentially has nothing.

He has no real leads; no further instincts to follow. He’s been running around on a whim, and it’s gotten him nowhere. Usually that sort of thing works out for him, but he’s well trained enough to know that when it doesn’t, that doesn’t mean he’s out of options.

That just means he has to try harder.

The more things spiral out of control, the harder Michael has to hold on -- and hope like hell there’s still something to hold onto.

This means, he needs to go back to the beginning. He needs to start a structured search pattern; he needs to look for clues. 

In short, he needs to do his job.

This rational approach is calming to him as he heads back on the main roads. He thinks he can still do this. He can still find Billy and everything will be fine.

Everything has to be fine.

Maybe it’s confidence. Maybe it’s optimism. Maybe it’s denial.

At this point, Michael doesn’t really care.

He just needs it to be true or he’s not entirely sure what he’ll do.

He’s crossing the road back toward the motel, mapping out his next plan of attack when he hears it. The yell is in Spanish, but Michael is good at distinguishing tones of authority. He picks out a few words of Spanish and frowns, turning back and jogging across the street toward the next alleyway.

There’s a cop car at the front of the alley, and Michael slows his pace, glancing nervously at the crowds as he approaches. There’s another round of orders given in Spanish when Michael hears the plaintive reply.

The words are slurred and hard to discern, but there are a few relevant facts Michael can’t miss out on. The words are in English.

With a Scottish accent.

All thoughts of being discreet go out the window, and Michael runs the rest of the way. He crashes breathlessly into the alley and sees the cop, hand on his gun, trying to forcibly haul someone to their feet.

The figure on the ground is struggling, long limbs flailing. He’s barefoot and not fully dressed, and Michael sees a glimpse of the pale face and knows.

“Hey!” Michael says, moving forward just in time to stop the cop from hauling back and hitting Billy. He grabs the man’s arm. “Stop!”

The man turns on him, producing his gun fast enough that Michael pulls back, hands in the air. “Stop,” Michael says again. He fumbles to remember his Spanish. “Un amigo. Soy amigo.” He nods toward Billy. “Por favor.”

The cop holds him at gunpoint, seething for a moment long. When he finally seems to decide that Michael is no threat, he lowers the weapon and eases his stance. “English?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Michael says. He glances toward Billy, who appears to at least have enough sense to stop moving. “Look, he’s my friend. He’s sick. I stepped out for breakfast, and he disappeared.”

At this, the cop puts his gun away with a snort. “He is loitering,” he says. “I was about to arrest him.”

Michael shakes his head. “He hasn’t broken any laws, has he?”

The cop raises his eyebrows. “With his appearance, I had to check for drugs.”

Michael’s heart skipped a beat. “He’s clean.”

The man grunts, giving Michael a pitying look. “Your friend needs help, Senor. Help your denial will not get him.”

Michael swallows; he has nothing to say.

The cop looks at Billy again, who is still curled up on the ground, blinking owlishly at their conversation. He rolls his eyes. “Get him help, Senor,” he says. “I am not certain that letting him go is any kindness.”

With that, the cop retreats, heading back to his car. Michael waits until he gets in and pulls away before he turns his attention to Billy.

Billy.

Curled up in the alleyway, Michael sees Billy in the sunlight for the first time since this began. And he suddenly understands why the cop suspected Billy was a drug addict.

Because he is.

God help them all, Billy _is._ He has the washed out complexion, the sunken features. He’s been running around the streets in his boxers and a t-shirt. His feet are dirty and his arms are bandaged. He’s too thin, and his eyes are wild.

His eyes go wide when he sees Michael. “Michael,” he says, half crawling toward Michael. “You came.”

“Yeah,” Michael says, feeling numb. He reaches down, helping Billy to his feet. “Of course I came.”

Billy looks like he actually might cry. He feels brittle under Michael’s touch, and he has to half support the Scot to keep him on his feet. “You actually came.”

Michael sighs. “Yeah, buddy,” he says. “You think you want to go back now?”

Billy smiles at him. “I just needed to get something,” he says.

“We can get it at the motel,” Michael says.

“Oh, good,” Billy says. “Because I swear to you, Michael, I just need a small hit. Not very much. Just a bit.”

Michael stomach sinks.

“Just enough to tide me over,” Billy continues, oblivious. “I was going to find it before you came back, but they’re _looking_ for me.”

“No one else is looking for you,” Michael says, guiding Billy toward the end of the alley.

“But they _are,_ ” Billy says. “I think they bugged the room. We should do a full perimeter sweep.”

Michael sighs. “Let me worry about that,” he says, trying not to notice the looks they were eliciting.

“I suppose,” Billy agrees as they start across the street. He leans closer to Michael. “Just as long as we get enough for another hit.”

The cop is right. Billy needs help.

And so does Michael.

But there’s no help to be had.

-o-

Finding Billy is a relief, Michael knows.

Except Michael doesn’t feel very relieved. If anything, he just feels exhausted. He has to mostly carry Billy the rest of the way there, opting to go around to the side entrance to avoid any further disturbances. Billy talks the entire time, and the familiar cadence of his voice is almost comforting except for the fact that all Billy can talk about random conspiracy theories and a continued insistence that they find some drugs.

Michael mostly hums and nods absently, and he doesn’t think twice about anything until they’re safe inside the motel room. He deposits Billy on the bed and locks the deadbolt, running a hand through his hair as he turns back toward his teammate.

On the bed, Billy is watching him with hollowed out, hawkish eyes. He’s tense and jittery, and a stray muscle twitches in his jaw as he blinks a few times up at Michael with a hopeful smile. “So,” he says.

Michael blows out a breath. “So.”

All Michael wants to do is sit there and breathe. He wants to recover. He doesn’t want to think about how close they just came to disaster. How close he came to losing control -- to losing _Billy._

Billy shifts, bouncing his knee anxiously. He scratches errantly at the back of his neck before he shrugs. “So about the drugs,” he says, so conversational that it’s scary. “I mean, we don’t need the good stuff, anything will do -- and just a little. Enough to take the edge off, I think--”

Michael stares at him, a little flabbergasted. “Billy, I’m not getting you any drugs.”

Billy’s smile freezes. A tremor passes over him and he swallows as he shakes his head. “But you said -- I mean, I heard you say--”

Michael groans and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Billy, you’re on day six of withdrawal,” he explains, looking at the Scot plainly. “We’re almost over the worst of it. We can’t give in now.”

Michael is completely rational about it. He’s logical and sympathetic, but he’s also right.

Billy, however, looks absolutely crestfallen. His wide eyes are positively gleaming now, wet with unshed tears. His jaw trembles and his forehead creases. “But...” He takes a shuddering breath, blinking a few times as a tear falls. “I can’t do this. Michael, I can’t do this.”

It’s hard to watch, and Michael’s not a soft touch but seeing Billy this way is almost torture. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m trying to help you,” he says as gently as possible.

Billy takes another ragged breath, voice catching on a sob. “Help me?” he asks with total incredulity. “You’re going to _kill_ me.”

“This is what you wanted,” Michael insists. “We just have to get through the worst of it. Okay. Just a little longer.”

“I _can’t,_ ” Billy says, his voice shattering now. Tears are running freely down his face and his breathing has quickened. He shakes his head. “I swear to God, Michael, I can’t.”

“Hey,” Michael says, sitting on the bed opposite of Billy. “You _can._ You made it this far, okay? You can, and I’ll help you get there.”

Billy’s face contorted. “Help me?” he asks, indignant now. “By locking me up here and watching me die?”

“You’re not dying,” Michael says. “Trust--”

Billy moves so quick that Michael barely has time to react. He’s on his feet, fisting his hands in Michael’s shirt. “What do you know of it?” he demands, almost hysterical now. “What do you know about _anything?_ You weren’t there. You weren’t bloody there, and the months went by and you kept me there, and you sit back and you analyze and you assess but you don’t know a bloody _thing!_ ”

“Billy,” Michael says, surprised. He leans back, but makes no attempt to dislodge Billy. “The mission--”

“The mission,” Billy seethes. “I lay down my life and my sanity and my health and _everything_ for the good of the mission, and for what? To be locked in here against my will?”

“You wanted to--”

“I wanted to stay in England and work for MI6,” Billy snaps. “I wanted to find a place to belong, get a life. Instead I got the ODS, where I’m an acceptable pawn in a mission for a country that I can’t even call my own.”

Michael finds himself at a loss. “Billy--”

Billy’s face scrunches up in agony. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “I just need a hit,” he whines, begging now. He opens his eyes and stares at Michael intently. “Just one hit. Please. If you care about me at all, _please._ ”

Michael feels himself shatter, and he wants to make this better. He wishes he could make this go away. He wants to fix it, but he can’t.

“Billy,” he says, breath faltering. “I’m sorry--”

It’s not enough, though. It’s not even close to enough. There is no apology Michael can give that will ever do it justice. The words are hollow and pointless, and Michael knows it.

So does Billy.

This time, his face crumples as he dissolves into sobs. His fingers loosen from Michael’s shirt, and he sinks to his knees until he’s kneeling on the floor. His cries shake him as he weeps unabashedly at Michael’s feet.

It hurts to watch. It just _hurts._ Because Billy is broken and desperate, and there’s nothing Michael can do to fix it. Plus, it’s Michael’s fault. He doesn’t do powerless well, and this is as impotent as he’s ever been.

Right when it matters most.

This is no time for self-pity, though. This isn’t a moment to look at the bigger picture and get perspective. No, this is about Billy.

He can’t stop the pain; he can’t turn back the addiction.

But he can be there until it’s better.

Awkwardly, he gets off the bed, dropping to his knees next to Billy. The Scot doesn’t seem to notice him, but when Michael reaches out, Billy flinches. When Michael doesn’t retreat, fingers wrapped around Billy’s arm, the other man tenses and tries to pull away.

Michael doesn’t yield, though. Instead, he pulls Billy closer, and as he starts to wrestle, Michael merely envelops him in a hug.

Billy fights him, struggling in vain as he pushes at Michael’s grip. But it doesn’t take long for Billy’s will to break, and he goes pliant in Michael’s arm, head pressed against Michael’s chest as he continues to sob.

The sobs are wrenching, and Michael feels each one as though they are his own. At this point, they may as well be, his own grief is so raw. He doesn’t know how they got here; he doesn’t know how they’re going to get past this.

Michael doesn’t know anything at all.

Swallowing back his own tears, he shifts, drawing Billy closer and putting a steadying hand in his hair. The Scot sucks in a grating breath, before letting loose another sob again. He’s shaking, and Michael can feel the fine tremors in his body, the hammering of his heart against his chest. He doesn’t loosen his grip.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers while Billy cries. Billy doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t have to. Michael holds him and closes his eyes, breathing the words like a promise. When he feels his own cheeks wet with tears, he still doesn’t let go. Instead, he holds tighter because he can’t control anything, but he can control this much. “We’re going to be okay.”

-o-

When Billy’s cries taper off, Michael holds him awhile longer. He’s not sure how much time passes, but when he shifts his legs, he finds his feet are asleep. That makes him clumsy as he gets his footing, but he’s careful to cradle Billy gently, moving the sleeping man back toward his bed.

It takes some effort to get Billy up, but Michael takes his time and lays Billy on the pillows with the utmost attention to detail. He takes the time to fix the sheets, straightening them over Billy and smoothing them down. Billy snuffles in his sleep, face scrunching up with a small whine, but Michael lifts his hand, pressing it softly across Billy’s forehead until the other man shushes and slips back to sleep.

It’s not normal, and under any other circumstances, it’d seem entirely wrong. Michael isn’t known for his tenderness, as Fay would be the first to tell anyone. And he’s never been a father, but he imagines that this is what it’s like. The weight of responsibility, so heavy that it makes you want to handle with care. 

It’s a hard thing, actually. Looking at another person and knowing he is the only thing keeping him afloat. Billy’s not himself -- he has none of his self control. Billy would never admit it, but that’s his most precious vice. More important that literature or bad poetry, more vital than scotch or pretty women -- his lies and his guises, his ability to control a situation to protect himself.

That’s gone now, but Michael has to believe they can get it back. They just have to hold out. And if Billy can’t keep it together, then Michael has to do it for him.

Exhausted, he stumbles back to his own bed. He lies down on his side, staring at Billy and watching his chest rise and fall. The momentary respite is needed, and Michael tries not to think how short it could be.

Mostly, Michael stops thinking altogether as he lies on his best and lets time pass with excruciating tedium.

That’s all that’s left. Maybe that’s all they ever had, but Michael could never admit it until now. Because this has taken Billy apart and left him bare. Michael feels just as raw and exposed. He realizes now, if Billy doesn’t make it through this, Michael’s not sure he will either.

Which is why he can’t fail. Why he won’t fail.

He holds his vigil and doesn’t waver.

It’s time to see this through until the very end.

-o-

That night, Michael doesn’t leave the room. He responds to minimal texts but turns the ringer off. It’s a little of a risk, he knows -- being non-communicative could set out warning bells and elicit a more aggressive response. The last thing he wants is Martinez pounding down the door or Fay calling Casey to confirm Michael’s whereabouts.

But it’s a risk he’s going to take, because the alternative is worse. He still hasn’t shaken how close he came this morning. The image of Billy, curled up on the street like a common junkie, will haunt him for a long time. There’s no way he’s stepping foot outside this room again until Billy can do it with him.

Michael feeds Billy; he makes him drink. They go to the bathroom, and Michael holds Billy while he cries and begs. He absorbed the blows from Billy’s feeble fists as he curses Michael, seethes at him. He thrashes on the bed and scratches at his skin until he bleeds. He moans and shakes, fingers fisting desperately in his hair while he raves about the people who are out to get them.

When Billy sleeps, Michael sits for indefinite stretches of time, waiting and hoping. He doesn’t get his computer out. He doesn’t do paperwork. He doesn’t check his phone. The instant Billy shifts, Michael is there to help him, no matter what he needs.

The hours pass.

Michael endures.

And so does Billy.

-o-

The night passes, excruciatingly slow. Michael holds his vigil. After a while, Billy can no longer be roused to eat and when Michael tries to take him to the bathroom, he doesn’t stir. The moaning has stopped -- the ranting and raving, too -- but the startling stillness that replaces them is hardly any consolation.

In the morning, Billy’s fever climbs. He sweats, soaking the sheets until Michael throws them all to the ground. He strips Billy of his shirt and keeps tepid washcloths on hand to cool his body. Billy doesn’t fight him; Billy doesn’t protest.

Billy doesn’t do anything at all.

Around midday, Billy’s breathing starts to sound labored. There’s a whine in his inhalations, and when Michael presses a finger into Billy’s pulse point, the rhythm is all off. It races one minute and then stutters the next.

At a loss, Michael opens Billy’s mouth and dribbles water inside. Most of it trickles back out, but Michael has to hope some of it is getting in. It’s hard to say, though, and when Billy’s sweating slows down in the late afternoon, Michael’s not certain that’s a good sign.

Still, Billy doesn’t wake. At this point, Billy’s deeply locked in the battle with his addiction; he’s fighting with all he has. His weakness over the last week has been unnerving, but Michael sees these desperate, gasping inhalations for what they are -- one last stand at reclaiming his mind and body. His last ditch effort to save his own life.

Michael’s always believed that would be enough. That if Billy kept at it, if Michael didn’t waver -- it would be enough.

But as the afternoon gives way to night and Billy’s breathing grates harshly in the room, Michael’s starting to wonder if this is a fight they can win after all.

-o-

Michael sits, perched on the edge of his seat. His body is thrumming with adrenaline, and he feels so exhausted that he’s jittery. He could sleep -- Billy’s so far gone that he’d never know the difference -- but he can’t look away now.

He won’t.

Billy’s labored breathing intensifies, and when Michael checks him, he can actually see his heartbeat throbbing at the exposed artery on his neck. He’s trembling now, and his skin is terrifyingly hot to the touch. The tremors aren’t quite convulsions, but Michael worries how close they’re coming.

He’s worried about a lot of things. About whether Billy’s brain is getting fried by the fever. About the chemical reactions in his brain, draining the rest of his body. About what Fay is telling Higgins, about what Casey and Rick suspect.

About Billy, fighting for his life and losing.

He’s been tempted to get help throughout this process, but it’s always been for his own benefit. It’s been his own weakness that almost made him cave. As the time passes and Billy’s body struggles against the addiction, Michael is forced to admit one last possibility of defeat.

After all, he’s not out of moves just yet. There’s nothing he can do in this motel room, but there is help available. If Billy’s dying, all it takes is a single call and Billy can be transferred to a hospital, receive the best medical help available. They can use drugs to control the effects of the addiction; they can put Billy in a carefully monitored rehab program that would promote success without the same health risks of going entirely cold turkey.

It would cost Billy his career, but Michael’s always kept it on the table. He just never thought he’d have to use it. He thought he could do this. After everything he’s failed on this mission, he thought he could do this. After all the ways he let Billy down, he thought he could give this one last victory to Billy.

Michael’s failed everything else, though. He’s not sure why he thought it was so different.

He realizes then, that he hasn’t changed. He’s still the same guy he was when this started, stubborn and blind, insistent to the point of danger. He makes his priorities and sticks to them, at all costs. Before, he kept Billy undercover and let him get addicted to cocaine. Now, he’s holding onto a vain promise of a success that may simply not be tangible.

Michael’s not God.

He’s just a guy with a plan that doesn’t always work out the way he wants it to. 

And that’s all there is.

After a week, Michael’s control slips entirely. He’s as broken as Billy, and he has no defense of his own left. This has taken him apart as much as Billy, and Billy’s still fighting.

Michael doesn’t know if he still can.

The grief is suddenly overwhelming, and he sits forward, taking up Billy’s slack hand in his own. “Whatever happens,” he says, surprised to find his voice shaking. He swallows. “Whatever happens, just know you’re not alone. Not this time.”

On the bed, Billy doesn’t move. His chest rises and fall, breath coming out harshly through his parted lips. It’s hard to remember Billy’s smile or the sound of his voice. It’s just hard.

Michael squeezes Billy’s hand, feeling the sting of tears. He breathes heavily, his chest tight as he loses the fight with his emotions. “Not this time,” he whispers as he holds his grip. “Never again.”

-o-

In the dark, Michael isn’t always sure if he’s dreaming or awake. Billy keeps breathing, and Michael remembers.

He remembers the first time he met Billy, bright eyed and nervous, fresh from the UK. 

He remembers Billy’s first mission, when he talked his way out of a firefight with a wink and a smile.

He remembers Billy’s grief when Carson died, holding the kid while he sobbed because it hurt so bad.

He remembers the last promise he gave Billy before he went undercover. “I’m going to be here on the other side,” he said. “You won’t be alone.”

It hadn’t been true enough, but it’s true now.

Michael has to believe that here, in the darkest hours of the night, that counts for something. Maybe not everything, but it counts for enough.

-o-

Morning is hardly a relief, and Michael is mostly surprised to draw back the curtain and see sunlight streaming in. His mind is sluggish from a lack of sleep, but he dimly realizes that he’s survived the night.

He looks back to Billy, still asleep on the bed. His breathing is still a little heavy, but it’s eased now, and when Michael presses a hand to Billy’s forehead, it’s clear the fever has broken.

At the touch, Billy stirs. It takes a moment while Billy blinks his eyes, and even then he seems to have trouble as he tries to get them to focus. But when his eyes land on Michael’s, there’s recognition.

“Billy?” Michael asks. “You okay?”

Billy frowns, smacking his dry lips together. He shifts and makes a face. “Bugger,” he mumbles. “I feel awful.”

Michael tenses. “What do you need?” he asks, bracing himself for the inevitable answer.

Billy laughs humorlessly. “I don’t suppose you can rustle up some steak and eggs?” he says. “It feels like I haven’t eaten in a week.”

The request is not what he was expecting. It’s so normal -- so beautifully, perfectly _Billy_ \-- the Michael almost wants to cry.

Billy looks concerned at the sight. He sits up, propping himself up weakly on his elbows. “Michael?” he asks, voice still hoarse. He wets his lips before looking genuinely perplexed. But he’s aware; he’s lucid. Better than all that, though, he’s sober. “What happened?”

Michael just grins. “We made it,” he says. He nods, the sense of satisfying victory washing over him with startling ferocity. “We actually made it.”

-o-

Billy is weak, but he eats almost all his breakfast and downs a glass of orange juice. When Michael helps him to the bathroom, his legs are weak and wobbly but he makes it there with nothing more than a helping hand. Showering is a bit too ambitious, but Billy meekly asks Michael to draw a bath, a request which Michael gladly obliges. He hesitates, not sure if he trusts Billy to step over the ledge and settle in of his own accord, but the Scotsman looks up at him sheepishly.

“I reckon it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” he says with a small smile. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to try this one on my own.”

Part of Michael wants to say yes immediately -- and be grateful for the change. It’s been harrowing, having Billy rely on him for everything. It’s been emotionally draining.

But part of Michael wants to refuse. He’s seen Billy through ups and downs he hadn’t counted on this week, and he realizes how scared he is that it’s not over yet. Billy’s coherent calm notwithstanding, it’s only been two days since Billy was a mess in the street, scrabbling for drugs anywhere he could look.

This all started because Michael didn’t keep himself in total control. As much as he’s relieved to have Billy competent again, he doesn’t know how to trust it. He doesn’t know how to trust Billy -- or himself.

He just doesn’t know.

Billy’s smile falls, and he looks down. “You can leave the door propped,” he says. “And at the first sign of trouble, I give you full permission to come back in.”

Michael swallows, nodding. “Yeah,” he says, trying to forge his own smile. “That sounds like a deal.”

This time, Billy doesn’t quite meet his eyes, smiling vaguely. There’s an awkward hesitation before Michael turns and leaves, pulling the door shut without latching it. He listens as Billy slowly undresses, and he hears the water slosh slightly as Billy presumably settles in.

After several uneventful minutes, Michael turns back toward the room. He could tidy up a bit -- pick up some things and try to get them organized again. He idly touches his phone, tucked neatly into his pocket, and considers making some calls. That’s what he should do.

The rush of emotions is sudden, and Michael has to squeeze his eyes shut to contain it. None of the normal tasks seem the same. None of the daily demands seem to matter like they used to. Everything has changed. Everything is fundamentally different. Just because Michael can finally see a light at the end of the tunnel can’t negate that fact.

Nothing can.

Billy’s a recovering cocaine addict, and Michael’s life will never be the same.

He forces hot breaths through his nose, grinding his teeth together as he waits for the emotions to pass.

They don’t, but after several more minutes Billy’s voice calls. “Michael? Do you think you could get me some fresh clothes?”

Michael swallows hard, blinking open his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says, moving toward Billy’s things. “No problem at all.”

-o-

Billy moves gingerly, but once he’s dressed, he purposefully circumvents the bed and sits down in one of the chairs, offering Michael a wan smile.

“Well,” Billy says, taking a breath and letting it out. “Long week, eh?”

Michael almost chokes on an incredulous snort. “You think?”

Billy smiles sheepishly. “I remember parts of it,” he said.

“Not much worth remembering,” Michael says vaguely.

Billy nods, looking away. Silence falls, and Michael scratches the back of his neck uncertainly.

“So you’re okay?” Michael asks finally, not sure what else to say.

Surprised, Billy looks up at him. 

Michael shrugs. “I mean, relatively. Things got, um...intense there.”

Billy cringes. “No more paranoid ravings, if that’s what you mean.”

“And the cravings?” Michael asks.

There’s a pause, and something indiscernible flits across Billy’s expression before he smiles. “It’s only been a week,” he says. “I reckon I’ll always want it.”

Michael feels himself tense.

“But I’m not about to be running out of here behind your back again,” Billy says. His shoulders fall. “Michael, I’m sorry--”

“It wasn’t you,” Michael says shortly. “It was the drugs.”

“Sort of hard to separate the two, I think,” Billy says.

Michael shakes his head, adamant. “I was there for all of this,” he says. “I know what it was like. And look at you, you came through. Cold turkey, and you made it.”

Billy’s gaze deflects again. “Not without some help.”

“And you’re always going to have that help,” Michael says. He sighs. “Look, Billy, we both screwed up at the start of this thing. If I could go back and pull the plug on this mission earlier, I would. But you made the choice to beat it, even when you didn’t want to. And here you are on the other side.”

Billy makes a small face. “Doesn’t feel quite as dramatic as I thought it would,” he says. “I have to wonder if I’m even fit for duty.”

“Don’t,” Michael says. “We’re not going to go there.”

“We have to be practical--”

“You think we went through this entire thing to be practical?” Michael asks. “You’re clean, Billy. That’s what matters.”

“No thanks to my own doing,” Billy comments.

“Bull shit,” Michael says.

Billy flinches, looking up in surprise.

“Yeah, I had to get you through the hard parts, but this was your decision,” he says. “You could have kept it hidden. Maybe we wouldn’t have found out for a while. Hell, you could have cut out before we even raided the place and lived your life high and large off the books somewhere. The mission forced you to get addicted. But you made the choice to get clean.”

Billy’s expression wavers. “You sound awfully certain.”

Michael draws a breath, then nods. “Damn straight,” he says, feeling the resolve tighten in his chest. “If we survived this week, Billy, we can survive anything.”

Studying him, Billy appears pensive. But he finally nods. “Well, then,” he says. “Who am I to disagree?”

It’s not a resounding agreement, but after the week they’ve just had, it’s enough.

-o-

The rest of the day goes well.

Relatively.

It’s still inordinately awkward, and Michael catches himself hovering whenever Billy tries to move. It takes some self control not to dote on the other man, and he finds himself watching Billy carefully when he eats and drinks. Billy doesn’t fight him on it, though, and when he goes to the bathroom, he leaves the door cracked as what Michael can only assume is a courtesy.

Even so, they watch TV. Billy starts commenting on the commercials, and complaining about Michael’s taste in programming. He gets frustrated looking through the neat piles of his clothes, and bemoans Michael’s attempts to fold his underwear.

It’s a little surreal in its normalcy. After a week of hell, resuming life as normal just doesn’t seem possible, no matter how much he wants it.

There are still moments, though. When Billy’s gaze goes vacant, when he inhales sharply and his face creases with pain. When Billy eyes the door or fingers the healing needle tracks on his arm.

But then Billy quips and smiles; he defuses and deflects.

Michael has no choice but to hope.

-o-

Michael orders a big dinner, and even though they can’t finish, it’s the most either of them have eaten in days. Billy jokes lightly through dinner, and Michael finds himself criticizing Billy when he wipes his dirty fingers on the sheet -- just like old times.

It’s these hints of normal that make Michael feel increasingly optimistic. He’s pinned his hopes on getting through the week, and now that it’s at the end, he finds himself uncertain. Billy is much improved -- and all Michael’s research suggests that Billy’s clear of the worst of the withdrawal -- but moving forward is another issue entirely.

Billy’s still an addict. More than that, what they’ve experienced together isn’t exactly easy water under the bridge. He’s seen Billy at his absolute worst, and no matter what he says, that makes it hard to look the other man in the eye.

It doesn’t help that Billy can barely look at him, either. They’re both ashamed and embarrassed, and Michael wonders how one week changed so much.

But it’s not one week. It’s one week and five months before that. 

It’s the nagging doubt that he doesn’t trust Billy -- any more than he trusts himself.

When the phone rings, he’s actually a bit relieved. Glancing at it, he makes a face.

“Important?” Billy asks.

“Martinez,” Michael reports with a sigh.

Billy lifts his eyebrows. “Surely he’s better company than I have been.”

Michael snorts. “He’d like to be, no doubt,” he says. He shrugs. “The kid’s been calling nonstop trying to check up.”

Billy’s face sobers. Now that Billy’s coherent, the reality of the outside world suddenly seems more pressing -- and more salient. A fact that Michael has noticed as much as Billy. While that’s good, it’s also something Michael’s not quite sure what to do with. The plan was always to just go on like nothing had happened.

Except _everything_ had happened.

The phone dings again, this time with a text. “Look,” Michael says. “I should take this. Rick’s been anxious--”

Billy offers him a small smile. “Don’t hold back on my account,” he says. “At least, not anymore.”

“I can just give him a quick ring--” Michael starts.

“Michael,” Billy cuts him off. “Go. I may be the only member of your team who is a drug addict, but I’m not the only member of your team.”

“You’re not a drug addict--”

Billy gives him a baleful look. “Michael.”

“And Martinez--”

“Needs you,” Billy interjects. “Probably more than I do, at this point.”

Michael wants to fight. There’s a part of him -- a large part of him -- that just doesn’t want to give up control. He’s scared of what might happen.

Hell, he’s just _scared._

Billy’s expression softens. “I promise not to do anything stupid.”

Michael takes a breath. “I’ll be right outside,” he says. “I’ll just be a minute--”

“I think after a week, I can spare that much.”

Michael hesitates, eyes on Billy. He has to look at him again, look at the clarity in his eyes, the color in his cheeks, the smile on his face. Billy says he can spare that much, and Michael wants to believe him.

It’s not a question of hope, really. It’s a cold assessment of the facts and the simple reality that Michael can’t stay here forever. Someday he has to leave the room.

Finally, he forces a smile. “Okay, then,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’ll really just be a minute.”

Billy doesn’t reply -- and he certainly doesn’t protest -- and Michael can’t help but look back one more time before he leaves the room, letting the door shut quietly behind him.

-o-

By the time the door clicks shut, Michael’s phone is buzzing again. Martinez is persistent at the very least, and Michael has to admit that a distraction feels kind of good.

“Yes, Martinez,” Michael says evenly when he answers.

There’s a pause. “Michael?” Rick asks, sounding confused.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Michael asks.

“No, I--” Rick starts and falters. “You haven’t been answering your phone. I even knocked on your door.”

“I have a life outside of you,” Michael reminds him.

“For over a day,” Rick says, sounding more than a little put out. “Is everything okay?”

“If something was wrong, don’t you think I’d tell you?” Michael asks. It’s a deflection and it’s not quite a lie even if it insinuates the opposite of the truth.

“I guess,” Rick says, but he sounds unconvinced. There’s a hesitation. “Billy...”

“Had a pretty rough week,” Michael finishes for him, hoping to cut off deeper inquiry. “About the worst case of the flu I’ve seen.”

There’s another pause. “But he’s okay?”

Michael sighs, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. That’s a question to consider, in all honesty. Is Billy okay? Is Michael okay? Is _anything_ okay?

They’ve been through a lot this week -- they’ve been through hell. 

But it’s over now, Michael realizes.

It’s not completely over, but it’s over. Billy’s clean; Michael can leave the room. Tomorrow, they’re going home.

It’s finally over.

Michael almost cries as he chuckles. “Yeah,” he replies. “We’re all going to be okay.”

-o-

Michael takes a moment to send Casey a text. It’s a reminder about their flight, but it’s really just a way to let him know that things really are okay, despite appearances to the contrary. He knows Casey suspects something, and he also knows this message will do enough to diffuse any tensions for the time being.

Then he calls in with his military contacts and the local authorities, and is relieved to hear that everything has gone according to schedule. All suspects have been arraigned and charged, and many have been deported to face charges in various Latin American countries.

Finally, with that squared away, he calls Fay.

“Michael,” she says, sounding positively relieved. “Where have you been?”

“Aw, worried?” he jokes.

She sighs, the concern quickly fading to annoyance. “Higgins has been on my back.”

“Well, tell him all is well,” he says. 

“The results do speak for themselves,” Fay admits, sounding a little begrudging. She pauses. “This isn’t like you, though. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Well, let’s just say I’m ready to come home,” he says. “There’s nothing left for us here.”

Finally, Fay just laughs. “You dismantled an entire drug cartel,” she says. “You effectively stymied a major drug trafficking route. I don’t know how you do it.”

Michael knows, though. He knows the work and the effort. He knows the risks and the sacrifices. He _knows._

Sometimes he’s not sure it’s worth it, but it is worth something.

After a week like this, he has to remember that.

He smiles sadly. “Trust me,” he says. “You really don’t want to know.”

-o-

Back inside, Billy is still sitting up in the chair where Michael left him, though he looks like he may be half asleep. He rouses when Michael comes closer, smiling tiredly. “‘fraid I’m a bit knackered,” he admits.

Michael shrugs, settling down in his chair. “You’re entitled to that.”

Billy’s smile fades. “Not sure I’m entitled to anything,” he murmurs.

“Don’t even,” Michael says.

Billy lets the topic drop. “And how is Rick?”

“Anxious,” Michael reports. “Don’t be surprised if he tries to hug you or something tomorrow.”

For a moment, Billy manages a look of vague bemusement. “I may just return it,” he comments. “I feel like I haven’t seen him or Casey in ages.”

“It’s only been a week,” Michael reminds him.

“And months before that!” Billy insists. “And besides, I hardly felt like myself...”

He trails off awkwardly, and the notion dangles.

“It’ll all come back when we get back Stateside,” Michael assures him. “You’ll see. Besides, aren’t you ready to get the hell out of here?”

“Indubitably,” Billy says. Then, with a troubled look, Billy looks away again. He chews his lip for a moment, then glances at Michael uncertainly. “It’s just...there’s no way we can keep this a secret.”

“Hey, what happens on the mission, stays in the mission,” Michael says, repeating the mantra that has been well worn with time. They’ve used it for many things, but none quite like this.

Billy looks at him plainly, a hint of grief on his face. “There are too many telltale signs,” he says. “The bloodwork from the physical alone...”

“I have a few favors to call in,” Michael says. “We’ll delay your physical long enough for your bloodwork to come up clean.”

“Even so, the track marks--”

“You shot up empty for your cover,” Michael concludes for him.

“If that had worked, I wouldn’t have got addicted in the first place,” Billy comments wryly.

Michael sighs in frustration. “The Agency doesn’t want to know. You get to be the golden boy on this one. Even Higgins wants a hero out of this, and if we’re ever going to get away with cutting corners, this is it.”

Billy looks like he wants to argue. Finally he takes a breath. “And the team?”

“What about them?” Michael asks, a little too flippant.

“What will we tell them? They surely have their suspicions.”

“I told them it was the flu,” Michael says. 

“A week locked in a motel room with the flu?” Billy asks incredulously.

“Stranger things have happened,” Michael says.

“They’re not idiots,” Billy argues.

“No, but they both understand that some things are need to know,” Michael replies

“Even within the team?” Billy asks.

“Especially within the team,” Michael says with growing vigor. “Look, if they know, then they’re going to have to lie about it. Do you want that? Do you want to put Rick in that position?”

Billy looks away guiltily.

“Besides, what do you think Casey will do?” Michael asks. “They think they want to know, but they don’t. Casey understands that. Rick will respect it. You’ve earned a pass on this one, Billy.”

“I’ve earned nothing, Michael,” Billy says flatly. “I’m a drug addict.”

“You’re a spy,” Michael snaps. “You’re a stupid, noble spy who gave everything he had to the mission -- and I mean everything. If you want to hang yourself out to dry for doing what had to be done, then you’ll be doing it for yourself and no one else. This should _make_ your career, Billy. Not take it from you.”

Billy swallows, wincing. “You believe that?”

“Damn straight,” Michael says. “You made choices undercover, so I get why it feels like you need to blame yourself. But you gave yourself up for the mission. You sacrificed yourself for the greater good. You’re a hero, plain and simple.”

Eyes full, Billy blinks rapidly, shaking his head. “How can you say that?” he asks, his voice breaking. “After this week...”

“How can I not?” Michael returns without missing a beat. “You fought this, and you won. Take that victory. Use it. Don’t let this be in vain.”

“It’s not over, though,” Billy says. “What about the next mission with drug runners? Or a deep cover opportunity?”

Michael refuses to flinch, no matter how much those prospects terrify him. “Then we’ll win those battles, too. You can do this, Billy. I know you can.”

Billy laughs raggedly, shaking his head. “No,” he says, before looking up at Michael. “But with your help, maybe...”

“Then consider it done,” Michael says.

Billy smiles ruefully. “I think I’d like that,” he ventures cautiously.

“Yeah,” Michael says with a chuckle. “Me, too.”

-o-

It’s not long before Billy goes to bed, hunkering down with a weary sigh beneath the covers. Michael hits the lights and puts the TV on mute as he kicks his legs out and settles in for one last night.

Billy snuffles for a few moments before finding a comfortable spot, and after several more moments, Michael hears his breathing even out.

Michael watches the TV until his vision starts to blur, and he finds his eyes getting heavy. He slumps lower until he gives up entirely and hits the power.

In the dark, he stares at the ceiling for a moment, watching shadows dance across it from the traffic outside. He can still hear Billy breathing, steady and reassuring, and Michael struggles with the question of letting go.

It’s inevitable, in a lot of ways. But it’s also a little terrifying. He knows the week he’s had, and he doesn’t know exactly what tomorrow will bring.

He wants to be hopeful, though. The idea of his team; the idea of home; the idea of things going back to the way they were. Maybe not completely, but close enough.

Then his eyes finally slip closed.

-o-

Michael wakes with a start.

His heart rate is elevated; his palms are sweaty. Something is wrong. Something--

He turns his head to the side, and his anxiety skyrockets. Billy’s bed is empty. The sheets have been hastily thrown into place, but the bed is still rumpled and undeniably vacant.  
 _  
Billy.  
_  
He’s on his feet within seconds, almost running for the door. He’s moving so fast that he almost runs into the figure that steps from the bathroom.

Billy steps back. “Whoa,” he says. “I thought our flight was in the evening.”

Michael stares for a moment, dumbfounded. Billy is standing there like everything is fine. He’s freshly shaven and toweling off his hair. “You showered,” Michael finally concludes.

Billy smiles. “Good to see your powers of observation are still as sharp as ever,” he muses, starting around Michael toward the bed. He starts packing -- at least, that’s what Michael assumes Billy’s effort at stuffing his clothing into a travel bag are supposed to represent. He glances back, curious. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, not even quite able to come up with anything more intelligent to add.

Billy sighs, sitting down heavily on his bed. “You thought I’d run.”

“What?” Michael asks. “No.”

Billy gives him a look.

Michael shifts uncomfortably. “Well, I was barely awake.”

“I can’t fault you,” Billy says. “I fear this week was harder on you than me.”

Michael refuses to think about it. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Aye,” Billy agrees. “And that may have been the hardest part of all.”

Pursing his lips, Michael frowns. “You’re making too big of deal out of this.”

“No,” Billy says with a sad smile. “I’m really not.”

“Yes,” Michael says. “You really are.”

“Michael,” Billy says plainly. “You woke up in a cold sweat because I wasn’t in the bed. How are you going to trust me in the field when you can’t even handle the idea of me getting up without your help?”

It’s not a comfortable realization, and Michael scowls. “You have to give me some time to adjust,” he says. “It’s been a long week.”

“Too long,” Billy says. He hesitates. “I’m thinking about going to Higgins right when we get back. Admitting everything. Given the results of the mission and the overall circumstances, I think he’d be supportive--”

Michael shakes his head. “Sure, he’d get you stuck in a support group with routine drug testing and a boring desk job as an analyst,” he says. “Not the field.”

Billy can’t meet his gaze anymore. “It may be for the best...”

“Hey,” Michael says, crossing the room and sitting down across from Billy. “We won. We fought like hell and we won. Let this be a victory for us, okay? Don’t let it be for nothing.”

Tentative, Billy looks up. “It’s going to be hard on both of us,” he says. “Not just me.”

“And you think I’m worried about that?”

“I think you should be,” Billy replies honestly.

“Well, I’m not,” Michael says. “At least no more than anything else.”

Billy huffs a laugh and nods his head. He sighs again. “I’m still sorry, Michael.”

Michael groans. “Enough with the apologies. You’ve tortured me enough.”

“Fine,” Billy says, looking somewhat bemused. “How about a thank you?”

Michael makes a face. “For what?”

“For staying with me, for starters,” Billy says. “And for God knows what else. Let’s just say it’s for everything.”

“Well, your thanks is accepted,” Michael says. “And thank you.”

Billy looks genuinely perplexed. “For becoming a drug addict?”

“For fighting,” he says. “I saw what you went through; I know what sacrifices you made. Thank you for pulling through.”

This time, Billy laughs outright. “It was the least I could do,” he says. “Quite literally.” He draws a breath, then presses his palms on his thighs. “Now, I have been exchanging texts with Rick.”

“I’ll bet he’s happy to hear from you,” Michael muses.

“Happy is not quite the word,” Billy says. “Ecstatic is more apt.”

Michael grunts with a chuckle. “So what does the kid have to say?”

“That he’ll be here in an hour to take us out for breakfast,” Billy reports.

“An hour?” Michael asks. “How are we going to get this place clean in an hour?”

“I reckon I can handle it,” Billy says. “That is, if you trust me to go to the dumpster.”

It’s actually not a joke, which is the hard part. And Michael can’t deny the twinge of trepidation in his gut. But still, he shrugs. Billy is awake and coherent; he’s functional; he’s Billy. “If you want,” he says. 

Billy’s smile widens, and light sparks in his eyes for the first time in what seems like ages. It’s just been a week, though. And five months before that.

Long enough.

“Sure,” Michael says, getting to his feet. He hesitates. “If you’re not back--”

Billy just grins, standing as well. “I’m pretty sure you’d find me.”

“Hey,” Michael says, holding up his hands. “That’s my job.”

Billy nods, clapping Michael on the shoulder. “And thank God for that.”

-o-

Ultimately, Michael knows it’s still a job well done. Nothing has changed regarding the mission. In fact, if anything, after a week of letting the dust settle, it’s more apparent than ever just how successful they were tactically. Five months of work and resources entirely paid off, and it’s a huge boon for the Agency and it has earned Michael more than a few favors back at Langley.

Five months had seemed long.

The last week seems longer.

When he and Billy get packed up, Michael discreetly checks out and pays the fees for the damage before they wait for Casey and Rick to show up.

Rick shows up first. He’s early -- of course -- and when he sees Billy, his smile is so wide that it looks like it hurts.

“Hey!” the kid says. For a moment, he lingers awkwardly, looking like he wants to hug but finally offering his hand instead. “Long week?”

Billy returns the smile taking his hand before pulling Rick close and patting him on the back. “You have no idea, lad.”

There’s a grunt from behind them, and Casey appears. “I think I might,” he mutters. 

Billy raises his eyebrows. “The lovely ladies didn’t work out?”

Casey glowers. “They got tired,” he says. “On Wednesday, they wanted to _talk._ ”

“Horrors, indeed,” Billy says.

Rick looks a little disgusted. “So what did you do with the rest of your time?”

Casey’s eyes twinkle. “That is need-to-know, Martinez.”

“And trust me,” Billy advises him, “you probably don’t want to know.”

Casey is actually smug. “And what did you do with your week off, rookie?”

Rick straightens, as if trying to disprove the title. “I saw a lot of the local culture,” he says. “Some of the ruins are actually pretty cool--”

“And I stopped listening after the word culture,” Casey says.

It’s Rick’s turn to glare. “Well, fine,” he says. “What about you, Billy? You didn’t really stay in bed all week, did you?”

For the first time, Billy falters and he glances toward Michael. It’s a tenuous moment, and there’s an implicit tension that begs to be resolved.

“He did, actually,” Michael interjects. “And I can vouch for that.”

“That’s a pretty bad flu,” Rick says uncertainly.

“You’re telling me,” Michael says. “I gave up my entire week to play nursemaid.”

“Better you than me,” Casey says. Then he hesitates, too, looking Billy over. “You sure you’re feeling back at 100 percent?”

Billy’s cheeks are slightly red, but he smiles. “Not quite,” he admits, meeting Michael’s gaze. “But I reckon it’s close enough for now.”

Michael smiles. It’s relief. It’s comfort.

Mostly, it’s over.

It’s been five of the hardest months for his team; one of the hardest weeks for him. Michael knows there are still things to come. There’s still fallout to deal with. This has changed Billy -- and it’s changed Michael. It’s going to change them all, whether they know it or not.

But they’re still standing. They’re still standing. And now, finally, they’re going home together.

It’s finally over.


End file.
